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Self-Raised; Or, From the Depths

by Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth · English · Gutenberg #6376 · 1,099,033 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Self-Raised; Or, From the Depths

Author: Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth


        
Release date: August 1, 2004 [eBook #6376]
                Most recently updated: December 29, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6376

Credits: Noemi Millman, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELF-RAISED; OR, FROM THE DEPTHS ***




Noemi Millman, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.



SELF-RAISED
    OR
FROM THE DEPTHS


BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH




CONTENTS



I.        RECOVERY
II.       HERMAN AND ISHMAEL
III.      FATHER AND SON
IV.       BEE
V.        SECOND LOVE
VI.       AT WOODSIDE
VII.      AT TANGLEWOOD
VIII.     WHY CLAUDIA WAS ALONE
IX.       HOLIDAY
X.        ISHMAEL AT BRUDENELL
XI.       THE PROFESSOR OF ODD JOBS
XII.      THE JOURNEY
XIII.     LADY VINCENT'S RECEPTION
XIV.      ROMANCE AND REALITY
XV.       CASTLE CRAGG
XVI.      FAUSTINA
XVII.     THE PLOT AGAINST CLAUDIA
XVIII.    IN THE TRAITOR'S TOILS
XIX.      CLAUDIA'S TROUBLES AND PERILS
XX.       A LINK IN CLAUDIA'S FATE
XXI.      NEWS FOR ISHMAEL
XXII.     ISHMAEL'S VISIT TO BEE
XXIII.    HANNAH'S HAPPY PROGNOSTICS
XXIV.     THE JOURNEY
XXV.      THE VOYAGE
XXVI.     THE STORM
XXVII.    THE WRECK
XXVIII.   A DISCOVERY
XXIX.     A DEEP ONE
XXX.      A NIGHT OF HORROR
XXXI.     THE CASTLE VAULT
XXXII.    THE END OF CLAUDIA'S PRIDE
XXXIII.   THE COUNTESS OF HURSTMONCEUX, 259
XXXIV.    THE RESCUE, 273
XXXV.     A FATHER'S VENGEANCE, 283
XXXVI.    ON THE VISCOUNT'S TRACK, 296
XXXVII.   STILL ON THE TRACK, 306
XXXVIII.  CLAUDIA AT CAMERON COURT, 317
XXXIX.    SUSPENSE, 327
XL.       FATHER AND DAUGHTER, 333
XLI.      ARREST OF LORD VINCENT AND FAUSTINA, 345
XLII.     A BITTER NIGHT, 357
XLIII.    FRUITS OF CRIME, 367
XLIV.     NEMESIS, 378
XLV.      THE VISCOUNT'S FALL, 392
XLVI.     THE FATE OF THE VISCOUNT, 399
XLVII.    THE EXECUTION, 410
XLVIII.   NEWS FOR CLAUDIA, 419
XLIX.     THE FATE OF FAUSTINA, 433
L.        LADY HURSTMONCEUX'S REVELATION, 439
LI.       ISHMAEL'S ERRAND, 449
LII.      THE MEETING OF THE SEVERILD PAIR, 466
LIII.     HOME AGAIN, 475
LIV.      WHICH IS THE BRIDE? 486
LV.       CONCLUSION, 494




CHAPTER I.

RECOVERY.

  Something I know. Oft, shall it come about
    When every heart is full of hope for man,
  The horizon straight is darkened, and a doubt
    Clouds all. The work the youth so well began
  Wastes down, and by some deed of shame is finished.
    Ah, yet we will not be dismayed:
  What seemed the triumph of the Fiend at length
    Might be the effort of some dying devil,
  Permitted to put forth his fullest strength
    To loose it all forever!
                         --_Owen Meredith._



Awful as the anguish of his parting with Claudia had been, it was
not likely that Ishmael, with his strength of intellect and will,
would long succumb to despair. It was not in Claudia's power to make
his life quite desolate; how could it be so while Bee cared for him?

Bee had loved Ishmael as long as Ishmael had loved Claudia. She had
loved him when he was a boy at school; when he was a young country
teacher; when he was a law-student; and she loved him now that he
was a successful barrister. This love, founded in esteem and honor,
had constantly deepened and strengthened. In loving Ishmael, she
found mental and spiritual development; and in being near him and
doing him good she found comfort and happiness. And being perfectly
satisfied with the present, Bee never gave a thought to the future.
That she tacitly left, where it belongs, to God.

Or if at times, on perceiving Ishmael's utter obliviousness of her
own kindly presence and his perfect devotion to the thankless
Claudia, Bee felt a pang, she went and buried herself with domestic
duties, or played with the children in the nursery, or what was
better still, if it happened to be little Lu's "sleepy time" she
would take her baby-sister up to her own room, sit down and fold her
to her breast and rock and sing her to sleep. And certainly the
clasp of those baby-arms about her neck, and the nestling of that
baby-form to her bosom, drew out all the heart-ache and soothed all
the agitation.

Except these little occasional pangs Bee had always been blessed in
loving. Her love, all unrequited, as it seemed, was still the
sweetest thing in the world to her; and it seemed thus, because in
fact it was so well approved by her mind and so entirely unselfish.
It seemed to be her life, or her soul, or one with both; Bee was not
metaphysical enough to decide which. She would not struggle with
this love, or try to conquer it, any more than she would have
striven against and tried to destroy her mental and spiritual life.
On the contrary she cherished it as she did her religion, of which
it was a part; she cherished it as she did her love of God, with
which it was united.

And loving Ishmael in this way, if she should fail to marry him, Bee
resolved never to marry another; but to live and die a maiden; still
cherishing, still hiding this most precious love in her heart as a
miser hides his gold. Whether benign nature would have permitted the
motherly little maiden to have carried out this resolution, I do not
know; or what Bee would have done in the event of Ishmael's marrying
another, she did not know. When Claudia went away, Bee, in the midst
of her regret at parting with her cousin, felt a certain sense of
relief: but when she saw the effect of that departure upon Ishmael
she became alarmed for him; and after the terrible experiences of
that day and night Bee's one single thought in life was--Ishmael's
good.

On the morning succeeding that dreadful day and night, Ishmael awoke
early, in full possession of his faculties. He remembered all the
incidents of that trying day and night; reflected upon their
effects; and prayed to God to deliver him from the burden and guilt
of inordinate and sinful affections.

Then he arose, made his toilet, read a portion of the Scriptures,
offered up his morning prayers, and went below stairs.

In the breakfast parlor he found Bee, the busy little house-keeper,
fluttering softly around the breakfast table, and adding a few
finishing touches to its simple elegance.

Very fair, fresh, and blooming looked Bee in her pale golden
ringlets and her pretty morning dress of white muslin with blue
ribbons. There was no one else in the room; but Bee advanced and
held out her hand to him.

He took her hand, and retaining it in his own for a moment, said:

"Oh, Bee! yesterday, last night!"

"'Upbraid not the past; it comes not back again.' Ishmael! bury it;
forget it; and press onward!" replied Bee sweetly and solemnly.

He raised her hand with the impulse to carry it to his lips; but
refraining, bowed his forehead over it instead, and then gently
released it. For Ishmael's affection for Bee was reverential. To him
she appeared saintly, Madonna-like, almost angelic.

"Let me make breakfast for you at once, Ishmael. It is not of the
least use to wait for the others. Mamma, I know, is not awake yet,
and none of the gentlemen have rung for their hot water."

"And you, Bee; you will also breakfast now?"

"Certainly."

And she rang and gave her orders. And the coffee, muffins, fried
fresh perch, and broiled spring chickens speedily made their
appearance.

"Jim," she said to the waiter who set the breakfast on the table,
"tell cook to keep some of the perch and pullets dressed to put over
the fire the moment she hears the judge's bell ring, so that his
breakfast may be ready for him when he comes down."

"Very well, miss," answered Jim, who immediately left the room to
give the order; but soon returned to attend upon the table.

So it was a tete-a-tete meal, but Bee made it very pleasant. After
breakfast Ishmael left Bee to her domestic duties and went up into
the office to look after the letters and papers that had been left
for him by the penny postman that morning.

He glanced over the newspapers; read the letters; selected those he
would need during the day; put the others carefully away; tied up
his documents; took up his hat and gloves, and set out for his daily
business at the City Hall.

In the ante-chamber of the Orphans' Court Room he met old Wiseman,
who clapped him on the shoulder, exclaiming:

"How are you this morning, old fellow? All right, eh?"

"Thank you, I am quite well again," replied Ishmael.

"Ah ha! nothing like good brandy to get one up out of a fit of
exhaustion."

"Ah!" exclaimed Ishmael, with a shudder.

"Well, and have you thought over what we were talking of yesterday?"

"It was--" Ishmael began, and then hesitated.

"It was about your going into partnership with me."

"Oh, yes! so it was! but I have not had time to think of it yet."

"Well, think over it today, will you, and then after the court has
adjourned come to my chambers and talk the matter over with me. Will
you?"

"Thank you, yes, certainly."

"Ah, well! I will not keep you any longer, for I see that you are in
a hurry."

"It is because I have an appointment at ten," said Ishmael
courteously.

"Certainly; and appointments must be kept. Good morning."

"Good morning, Mr. Wiseman."

"Mind, you are to come to my chambers after the court has
adjourned."

"I will remember and come," said Ishmael.

And each went his way.

Ishmael had not yet seriously thought of Lawyer Wiseman's proposal.
This forenoon, however, in the intervals of his professional
business, he reflected on it.

The proposed partnership was unquestionably a highly advantageous
one, in a worldly point of view. Lawyer Wiseman was undoubtedly the
best lawyer and commanded the largest practice at the Washington
bar, with one single exception--that of the brilliant young
barrister whom he proposed to associate with himself. Together, they
would be invincible, carrying everything before them; and Ishmael's
fortune would be rapidly made.

So far the offer was a very tempting one; yet the more Ishmael
reflected on it the more determined he became to refuse it; because,
in fact, his conscience would not permit him to enter into
partnership with Lawyer Wiseman, for the following reasons: Lawyer
Wiseman, a man of unimpeachable integrity in his private life,
declined to carry moral responsibility into his professional
business. He was indiscriminate in his acceptation of briefs. It
mattered not whether the case presented to him was a case of
injustice, cruelty, or oppression, so that it was a case for law,
with a wealthy client to back it. The only question with Lawyer
Wiseman being the amount of the retaining fee. If his client
liberally anointed Lawyer Wiseman's eyes with golden ointment,
Lawyer Wiseman would undertake to see and make the judge and jury
see anything and everything that his client wished! With such a man
as this, therefore, whatever the professional advantages of the
association might be, Ishmael could not enter into partnership.

And so when the court had adjourned Ishmael walked over to the
chambers of Mr. Wiseman on Louisiana Avenue, and in an interview
with the old lawyer courteously declined his offer.

This considerably astonished Mr. Wiseman, who pressed Ishmael for
the reasons of his strange refusal.

And Ishmael, being urged, at length candidly confessed them.

Instead of being angry, as might have been expected, the old lawyer
was simply amused. He laughed at his young friend's scruples, and
assured him that experience would cure them. And the interview
having been brought to a close, they shook hands and parted
amicably.

Ishmael hurried home to dine and spend the evening with the family.

On the Monday following, at the order of Judge Merlin, preparations
were commenced for shutting up the town house and leaving Washington
for Tanglewood; for the judge swore that, let anyone whatever get
married, or christened, stay in the city another week he could not,
without decomposing, for that his soul had already left his body and
preceded him to Tanglewood, whither he must immediately follow it.

Oh, but Bee had plenty of work to look after that week--the packing
up of all the children's clothes, and of all the household effects--
such as silver plate, cut-glass, fine china, cutlery, etc., that
were to be sent forward to Tanglewood.

She would have had to overlook the packing of the books also, but
that Ishmael insisted on relieving her of that task, by doing it all
with his own hands, as indeed he preferred to do it, for his love of
books was almost--tender. It was curious to see him carefully
straighten the leaves and brush the cover and edges of an old book,
as conscientiously as he would have doctored a hurt child. They were
friends and he was fond of them.

Ishmael continued steadily in the performance of all his duties, yet
that he was still suffering very much might be observed in the
abiding paleness and wasting thinness of his face, and in a certain
languor and weariness in all his movements.

Bee in the midst of her multifarious cares did not forget his
interests; she took pains to have his favorite dishes appear on the
table in order to tempt him to take food. But, observing that he
still ate little or nothing, while he daily lost flesh, she took an
opportunity of saying to him in the library:

"Ishmael, you know I am a right good little doctress; I have had so
much experience in nursing father and mother and the children; so I
know what I am talking about, when I tell you that you need a
tonic."

"Oh, Bee! if you did but really know, little sister!"

"I do know, Ishmael, I know it all!" she said gently.

"'Out of the heart are the issues of life!' Bee, mine has received a
paralyzing blow."

"I know it, dear Ishmael; I know it; but let your great mind sustain
that stricken heart until it recovers the blow. And in the meantime
try to get up your strength. You must have more food and more rest,
and in order to secure them you must take a tonic in the morning to
give you an appetite, and a sedative at night to give you sleep.
That was the way we saved mamma after little Mary died, or, indeed,
I think she would have followed her."

Ishmael smiled a very wan smile as he answered:

"Indeed, I am ashamed of this utter weakness, Bee."

"Why should you be? Has Providence given you any immunity from the
common lot? We must take our human nature as it is given to us and
do the best we can with it, I think."

"What a wise little woman you are, Bee."

"That's because I have got a good memory. The wisdom was second-
handed, Ishmael, being just what I heard you yourself say when you
were defending Featherstonehaugh:

  "'There's nothing original in me
  Excepting original sin.'"

Ishmael smiled.

"And, now, will you follow my advice?"

"To the letter, dear Bee, whenever you are so good as to advise me.
Ah, Bee, you seem to comprise in yourself all that that I have
missed of family affection, and to compensate me for the unknown
love of her mother, sister, friend."

"Do I, Ishmael? Oh, I wish that I really did!" said Bee,
impulsively; and then she blushed deeply at suddenly apprehending
the construction that might he put upon her words.

But Ishmael answered those words in the spirit in which they were
uttered:

"Believe me, dearest Bee, you do. If I never feel the want of home
affections it is because I have them all in you. My heart finds rest
in you, Bee. But oh, little sister, what can I ever render to you
for all the good you have done me from my childhood up?"

"Render yourself good and wise and great, Ishmael, and I shall be
sufficiently happy in watching your upward progress," said Bee.

And quietly putting down on the table a bunch of grapes that she had
brought, she withdrew from the office.




CHAPTER II.

HERMAN AND ISHMAEL.

  With a deep groan he cried--"Oh, gifted one,
  I am thy father! Hate me not, my son!"
                                       --_Anon_.

  Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot;
  Her slighted love and ruined name,
  Her offspring's heritage of shame,
  Shall witness for thee from the dead
  How trusty and how tender were
  Thy youthful love--paternal care!
                                       --_Byron_.



Her exit was almost immediately followed by the entrance of Mr.
Brudenell. He also had noticed Ishmael's condition, and attributed
it to overwork, and to the want of rest, with change of air. He was
preparing to leave Washington for Brudenell Hall. He was going a few
days in advance of Judge Merlin and the Middletons, and he intended
to invite Ishmael to accompany him, or to come after him, and make a
visit to Brudenell. He earnestly desired to have Ishmael there to
himself for a week or two. It was with this desire that he now
entered the library.

Ishmael arose from his packing, and, smiling a welcome, set a chair
for his visitor.

"You are not looking well, Mr. Worth," said Herman Brudenell, as he
took the offered seat.

"I am not well just at present, but I shall be so in a day or two,"
returned Ishmael.

"Not if you continue the course you are pursuing now, my young
friend. You require rest and change of air. I shall leave Washington
for Brudenell Hall on Thursday morning. It would give me great
pleasure if you would accompany me thither, and remain my guest for
a few weeks, to recruit your health. The place is noted for its
salubrity; and though the house has been dismantled, and has
remained vacant for some time, yet I hope we will find it fitted up
comfortably again; for I have written down to an upholsterer of
Baymouth to send in some furniture, and I have also written to a
certain genius of all trades, called the 'professor,' to go over and
see it all arranged, and do what else is needed to be done for our
reception."

Ishmael smiled when he heard the name of the professor; but before
he could make any comment, Mr. Brudenell inquired:

"What do you say, Mr. Worth? Will you accompany me thither, or will
you come after me?"

"I thank you very much, Mr. Brudenell. I should like to visit
Brudenell Hall; but--"

"Then you will come? I am very glad! I shall be alone there with my
servants, you know, and your society will be a god-send to me. Had
you not better go down at once when I do? I go by land, in a hired
carriage. The carriage is very comfortable; and we can make the
journey in two days, and lay by during the heat of both days. I
think the trip will be pleasant. We can reach Brudenell Hall on
Friday night, and have a good rest before Sunday, when we can go to
the old country church, where you will be likely to meet the faces
of some of your old friends. I think we shall be very comfortable,
keeping bachelor-hall together at Brudenell Hall this summer, Mr.
Worth," said Herman Brudenell, who longed more than tongue could
tell to have Nora's son at home with him, though it might be only
for a short time.

"I feel your kindness very much indeed, Mr. Brudenell; and I should
be very, very happy to accept your hospitable invitation; but--I was
about to say, it really is quite impossible in the existing state of
my business for me to go anywhere at present," said Ishmael
courteously.

"Indeed? I am very sorry for that. But the reasons you give are
unanswerable, I know. I am seriously disappointed. Yet I trust,
though you may not be able to come just at present, you will follow
me down there after a little while--say in the course of a few days
or weeks--for I shall remain at the hall all summer and shall be
always delighted to receive you. Will you promise to come?"

"Indeed, I fear I cannot promise that either, for I have a very
great pressure of business; but if I can possibly manage to go,
without infringing upon my duties, I shall be grateful for the
privilege and very happy to avail myself of it; for--do you know,
sir?--I was born in that neighborhood and passed my childhood and
youth there. I love the old place, and almost long to see the old
hut where I lived, and the hall where I went to school, and the
wooded valley that lies between them, where I gathered wild-flowers
and fruits in summer and nuts in winter, and--my mother's grave,"
said the unconscious son, speaking confidentially, and looking
straight into his father's eyes.

"Ishmael," said Herman Brudenell, in a faltering voice, and
forgetting to be formal, "you must come to me: that grave should
draw you, if nothing else; it is a pious pilgrimage when a son goes
to visit his mother's grave."

There was something in this new friend's words, look, and manner
that always drew out the young man's confidence, and he said, in a
voice trembling with emotion:

"She died young, sir; and oh! so sorrowfully! She was only nineteen,
two years younger than I am now; and her son was motherless the hour
he was born."

Violent emotion shook the frame of Herman Brudenell. He had not
entered the room with any intention of making a disclosure to
Ishmael; but he felt now that--come life, come death, come whatever
might of it--he must claim Nora's son.

"Ishmael," he began, in a voice shaken with agitation, "I knew your
mother."

"You, sir!" exclaimed the young man in surprise.

"Yes, I knew her and her sister, naturally, for they were tenants of
mine."

"I knew that they lived on the outskirts of the Brudenell estate;
but I did not know you were personally acquainted with them, sir;
for I thought that you had resided generally in Europe."

"Not all the time; I was at Brudenell Hall when--you were born and
your mother went to heaven, Ishmael."

Some of the elder man's agitation communicated itself to the
younger, who half arose from his seat and looked intently at the
speaker.

"I knew your mother in those days, Ishmael. She was not only one of
the most beautiful women of her day, but one of the purest, noblest,
and best."

Herman Brudenell hesitated. And Ishmael, who had dropped again into
his seat, bent eagerly forward, holding his breath while he
listened.

Herman continued.

"You resemble her in person and character, Ishmael. All that is best
and noblest and most attractive in you, Ishmael, is derived under
Divine Providence from your mother."

"I know it! Oh, I know it!"

"And, Ishmael, I loved your mother!"

"Oh, Heaven!" breathed the young man, in sickening, deadly
apprehension; for well he remembered that this Mr. Herman Brudenell
was the husband of the Countess of Hurstmonceux at the very time of
which he now spoke.

"Ishmael, do not look so cruelly distressed. I loved her, she loved
me in return, she crowned my days with joy, and--"

A gasping sound of suddenly suspended breath from Ishmael.

"I made her my wife," continued Herman Brudenell, in a grave and
earnest voice.

"It was you then!" cried Ishmael, shaking with agitation.

"It was I!"

Silence like a pall fell between them.

"Oh, Ishmael! my son! my son! speak to me! give me your hand!"
groaned Herman Brudenell.

"She was your wife! Yet she died of want, exposure, and grief!" said
Nora's son, standing pale and stony before him.

"And I--live with a breaking heart! a harder fate, Ishmael. Since
her death, I have been a wifeless, childless, homeless wanderer over
the wide world! Oh, Ishmael! my son! my son! give me your hand!"

"I am your mother's son! She was your wife, you say; yet she never
bore your name! She was your wife; yet her son and yours bears her
maiden name! She was your wife; yet she perished miserably in her
early youth; and undeserved reproach is suffered to rest upon her
memory! Oh, sir! if indeed you were her husband and my father, as
you claim to be, explain these things before I give you my hand! for
when I give my hand, honor and respect must go with it," said
Ishmael in a grave, sweet, earnest tone.

"Is it possible that Hannah has never told you? I thought she would
have told you everything, except the name of your father."

"She told me everything that she could tell without violating the
oath of secrecy by which she was hound; but what she told me was not
satisfactory."

"Sit down then, Ishmael, sit down; and though to recall this woeful
history will be to tear open old wounds afresh, I will do so; and
when you have heard it, you will know how blameless we both--your
mother and myself--really were, and how deep has been the tragedy of
my life as well as hers--the difference between us being that hers
is a dead trouble, from which she rests eternally, while mine is a
living and life-long sorrow!"

Ishmael again dropped into his chair and gave undivided attention to
the speaker.

And Mr. Brudenell, after a short pause, commenced and gave a
narrative of his own eventful life, beginning with his college days,
and detailing all the incidents of his youthful career until it
culminated in the dreadful household wreck that had killed Nora,
exiled his family and blasted his own happiness forever.

Ishmael listened with the deepest sympathy.

It was indeed the tearing open of old wounds in Herman Brudenell's
breast; and it was the inflicting of new ones in Ishmael's heart. It
was an hour of unspeakable distress to both. Herman did not spare
himself in the relation; yet in the end Ishmael exculpated his
father from all blame. We know indeed that in his relations with
Nora he was blameless, unless his fatal haste could be called a
fault. And so for his long neglect of Ishmael, which really was a
great sin, and the greatest he had ever committed, Ishmael never
gave a thought to that, it was only a sin against himself, and
Ishmael was not selfish enough to feel or resent it.

Herman Brudenell ended his story very much as he had commenced it.

"And since that day of doom, Ishmael, I have been a lonely,
homeless, miserable wanderer over the wide world! The fabled
Wandering Jew not more wretched than I!" And the bowed head,
blanched complexion, and quivering features bore testimony to his
words.




CHAPTER III

FATHER AND SON.

  For though thou work'st my mother ill
  I feel thou art my father still!
                               --_Byron._

  Yet what no chance could then reveal,
    And no one would be first to own,
  Let fate and courage still conceal,
    When truth could bring reproach alone.
                               --_Milnes._



Ishmael had been violently shaken. It was with much effort that he
controlled his own emotions in order to administer consolation to
one who was suffering even more than he himself was, because that
suffering was blended with a morbid remorse.

"Father," he said, reaching forth his hand to the stricken man; but
his voice failed him.

Herman Brudenell looked up; an expression of earnest love chasing
away the sorrow from his face, as he said:

"Father? Ah, what a dear name! You call me thus, Ishmael? Me, who
worked your mother so much woe?"

"Father, it was your great misfortune, not your fault; she said it
on her death-bed, and the words of the dying are sacred," said
Ishmael earnestly, and caressing the pale, thin hand that he held.

"Oh, Nora! Oh, Nora!" exclaimed Herman, as all his bosom's wounds
bled afresh.

"Father, do not grieve so bitterly; and after all these years so
morbidly! God has wiped away all tears from her eyes. She has been a
saint in glory these many years!"

"You try to comfort me, Ishmael. You, Nora's son?" exclaimed Herman,
with increased emotion.

"Who else of all the world should comfort you but Nora's son?"

"You love me, then, a little, Ishmael?"

"She loved you, my father, and why should not I?"

"Ah, that means that you will love me in time; for love is not born
in an instant, my son."

"My heart reaches out to you, my father: I love you even now, and
sympathize with you deeply; and I feel that I shall love you more
and more, and as I shall see you oftener and know you better," said
the simply truthful son.

"Ishmael! this is the happiest hour I have known since Nora's death,
and Nora's son has given it to me."

"None have a better right to serve you."

"My son, I am a prematurely old and broken man, ruined and
impoverished, but Brudenell Hall is still mine, and the name of
Brudenell is one of the most ancient and honored in the Old and New
World! If you consent, Ishmael, I will gladly, proudly, and openly
acknowledge you as my son. I will get an act of the Legislature
passed authorizing you to take the name and arms of Brudenell. And I
will make you the heir of Brudenell Hall. What say you, Ishmael?"

"Father," said the young man, promptly but respectfully, "no! In all
things I will be to you a true and loving son; but I cannot, cannot
consent to your proposal; because to do so would be to cast bitter,
heavy, unmerited reproach upon my sweet mother's memory! For,
listen, sir: you are known to have been the husband of the Countess
Hurstmonceux for more years than I have lived in this world; you are
known to have been so at the very time of my birth; you could not go
about explaining the circumstances to everyone who would become
acquainted with the facts, and the consequences would be what I
said! No, father, leave me as I am; for, besides the reasons I have
given, there is yet another reason why I may not take your name."

"What is that, Ishmael?" asked Brudenell, in a broken voice.

"It is, that in an hour of passionate grief, after hearing my
mother's woeful story from the lips of my aunt, I fell upon that
mother's grave and vowed to make her name--the only thing she had to
leave me, poor mother!--illustrious. It was a piece of boyish
vainglory, no doubt, but it was a vow, and I must try to keep it,"
said Ishmael, faintly smiling.

"You will keep it; you will make the name of Worth illustrious in
the annals of the country, Ishmael," said Mr. Brudenell.

There was a pause for a little while, at the end of which the latter
said:

"There is another way in which I may be able to accomplish my
purpose, Ishmael. Without proclaiming you as my son, and risking the
reproach you dread for your dear mother's memory, I might adopt you
as my son, and appoint you as my heir. Will you make me happy by
consenting to that measure, Ishmael?" inquired the father, in a
persuasive tone.

"Dear sir, I cannot. Oh, do not think that I am insensible to all
your kindness, for indeed I am not! I thank you; I love you; and I
deeply sympathize with you in your disappointment; but--"

"But what, my son? what is the reason you cannot agree to this last
proposal?" asked Mr. Brudenell, in a voice quivering with emotion.

"A strong spirit of independence, the growth of years of lonely
struggle with the world, possesses and inspires me. I could not for
an hour endure patronage or dependence, come they from where or how
they might. It is the law of my life," said Ishmael firmly, but
affectionately.

"It is a noble law, and yours has been a noble life, my son. But--is
there nothing, nothing I can do for you to prove my affection, and
to ease my heart, Ishmael?"

"Yes!" said the young man, after a pause. "When you return to
England, you will see--Lady Vincent!" The name was uttered with a
gasp. "Tell her what you have told me--the history of your
acquaintance with my mother; your mutual love; your private
marriage, and the unforeseen misfortune that wrecked your happiness!
Tell her how pure and noble and lovely my young mother was! that her
ladyship may know once for all Nora Worth was not"--Ishmael covered
his face with his hands, and caught his breath, and continued--"not,
as she said, 'the shame of her own sex and the scorn of ours'; that
her son is not 'the child of sin,' nor 'his heritage dishonor!'" And
Ishmael dropped his stately head upon his desk, and sobbed aloud;
sobbed until all his athletic form shook with the storm of his great
agony.

Herman Brudenell gazed at him--appalled. Then, rising, he laid his
hand on the young man's shoulder, saying:

"Ishmael! Ishmael! don't do so! Calm yourself, my son; oh, my dear
son, calm yourself!"

He might as well have spoken to a tempest. Sobs still shook
Ishmael's whole frame.

"Oh, Heaven! oh, Heaven! Would to the Lord I had never been born!"
cried Herman Brudenell, in a voice of such utter woe that Ishmael
raised his head and struggled hard to subdue the storm of passion
that was raging in his bosom. "Or would that I had died the day I
met Nora, and before I had entailed all this anguish on you!"
continued Herman Brudenell, amid groans and sighs.

"Don't say so, my father! don't say so! You were not in fault. You
were as blameless as she herself was; and you could not have been
more so," said Ishmael, wiping his fevered brow, and looking up.

"My generous son! But did Claudia--did Lady Vincent use the cruel
words you have quoted, against your mother and yourself?"

"She did, my father. Oh, but I have suffered!" exclaimed Ishmael,
with shaking voice and quivering features.

"I know you have; I know it, Ishmael; but you have grandly,
gloriously conquered suffering," said Mr. Brudenell, with
enthusiasm.

"Not quite conquered it yet; but I shall endeavor to do so," replied
the young man, who had now quite regained his self-possession.

And another pause fell between them.

Ishmael leaned his head upon his hand and reflected deeply for a few
moments. Then, raising his head, he said:

"My father, for her sake, our relationship must remain a secret from
all the world, with the few exceptions of those intimate friends to
whom you can explain the circumstances, and even to them it must be
imparted in confidence. You will tell Lady Vincent, that her
ladyship may know how false were the calumnies she permitted herself
to repeat; and Judge Merlin and Mr. Middleton, whose kindness has
entitled them to the confidence, for their own satisfaction."

"And no one else, Ishmael?"

"No one else in the world, my father. I myself will tell Uncle
Reuben. And in public, my father, we must be discreet in our
intercourse with each other. Forgive me if I speak in too
dictatorial a manner; I speak for lips that are dumb in death. I
speak as my dead mother's advocate," said Ishmael, with a strange
blending of meekness and firmness in his tone and manner.

"And her advocate shall be heard and heeded, hard as his mandate
seems. But, ah! I am an old and broken man, Ishmael. I had hoped, in
time, to claim you as my son, and solace my age in your bright
youth. I am grievously disappointed. Oh! would to Heaven I had taken
charge of you in your infancy, and then you would not disclaim me
now!" sighed Mr. Brudenell.

"I do not disclaim you, father. I only deprecate the publicity that
might wound my mother's memory. And you are not old and broken, my
father. How can you be--at forty-three? You are in the sunny summer
noon of your life. But you are harassed and ill in mind and body;
and you are very morbid and sensitive. You shun society, form no new
ties with your fellow-creatures, and brood over that old sad tragedy
long passed. Think no more of it, father; its wounds are long since
healed in every heart but yours; my mother has been in heaven these
many years; as long as I have been on earth; my birthday here was
her birthday there! Therefore, brood no more over that sad time; it
is forever past and gone. Think of your young love as much as you
please; but think of her in heaven. It is not well to think forever
of the Crucifixion and never of the Ascension; forever of the
martyrdom that was but for a moment, and never of the glory that is
from everlasting to everlasting. Nora was martyred; her martyrdom
was as the grief of a moment; but she has ascended and her happiness
is eternal in the heavens. Think of her so. And rouse yourself. Wake
to the duties and pleasures of life. Look around upon and enjoy the
beauty of the earth, the wisdom of man, the loveliness of woman, and
the goodness of God. If you were a single man I should say 'marry
again'; but as you are already a married man, though estranged from
your wife, I say to you, seek a reconciliation with that lady. You
are both in the prime of life."

"What! does Nora's son give me such advice?" inquired Brudenell,
with a faint, incredulous smile.

"Yes, he does; as Nora herself in her wisdom and love would do,
could she speak to you from heaven," said Ishmael solemnly Brudenell
slowly and sorrowfully shook his head.

"The Countess of Hurstmonceux can nevermore be anything to me," he
said.

"My father! have you then no kindly memory of the sweet young lady
who placed her innocent affections upon you in your early manhood,
and turning away from all her wealthy and titled suitors, gave
herself and her fortune to you?"

Slowly and bitterly Herman Brudenell shook his head. Ishmael, still
looking earnestly in his face continued:

"Who left her native country and her troops of friends, and crossed
the sea alone, to follow you to a home that must have seemed like a
wilderness, and servants that were like savages to her; who devoted
her time and spent her money in embellishing your house and
improving your land, and in civilizing and Christianizing your
negroes; and who passed the flower of her youth in that obscure
neighborhood, doing good and waiting patiently long, weary years for
the return of the man she loved."

Still the bitter, bitter gesture of negation from Herman.

"Father," said Ishmael, fixing his beautiful eyes on Brudenell's
face and speaking earnestly, "it seems to me that if any young lady
had loved me with such devotion and constancy, I must have loved her
fondly in return. I could not have helped doing so!"

"She wronged me, Ishmael!"

"And even if she had offended me--deeply and justly offended me--I
must have forgiven her and taken her back to my bosom again."

"It was worse than that, Ishmael! It was no common offense. She
deceived me! She was false to me!"

"I cannot believe it!" exclaimed Ishmael earnestly.

"Why, what ground have you for saying so? What can you know of it?"

"Because I do not easily think evil of women. My life has been short
and my experience limited, I know; but as far as my observation
instructs me, they are very much better than we are; they do not
readily yield to evil; their tendencies are all good," said Ishmael
fervently.

"Young man, you know a great deal of books, a great deal of law; but
little of men, and less of women. A man of the world would smile to
hear you say what you have just said, Ishmael."

"If I am mistaken, it is a matter to weep over, not to smile at!"
said Ishmael gravely, and almost severely.

"It is true."

"But to return to your countess, my father. I am not mistaken in
that lady's face, I know. I have not seen it since I was eight years
old; but it is before me now! a sweet, sad, patient young face, full
of holy love. Among the earliest memories of my life is that of the
young Countess of Hurstmonceux, and the stories that were afloat
concerning herself and you. It was said that every day at sunset she
would go to the turnstile at the crossroads on the edge of the
estate, where she could see all up and down two roads for many
miles, and there stand watching to catch the first glimpse of you,
if perhaps you might be returning home. She did this for years and
years, until people began to say that she was crazed with hope
deferred. It was at that very stile I first saw her. And when I
looked at her lovely face and thought of her many charities--for
there was no suffering from poverty in that neighborhood while she
lived there--I felt that she was an angel!"

"Aye! a fallen angel, Ishmael!"

"No, father! no! my life and soul on her truth and love! Children
are good judges of character, you know! And I was but eight years
old on the occasion of which I speak! I was carrying a basket of
tools for the 'professor,' whose assistant I was; and who would have
carried them himself only that his back was bent beneath a load of
kitchen utensils, for we had been plastering a cistern all day and
in coming home took these things to mend in the evening. And as we
passed down the road we saw this lovely lady leaning on the stile.
And she called me to her and laid her hand on my head and looked in
my face very tenderly, and turning to the professor, said: 'This
child is too young for so heavy a burden.' And she took out her
purse and would have given me an eagle, only that Aunt Hannah had
taught me never to take money that I had not earned."

"Grim Hannah! It is a marvel she had not starved you with her
scruples, Ishmael! But what else passed between you and the
countess?"

"Not much! but if she was sorry for me, I was quite as sorry for
her."

"There was a bond of sympathy between you which you felt without
understanding at the time!"

"There was; though I mistook its precise character. Seeing that she
wore black, I said: 'Have you also lost your mother, my lady, and
are you in deep mourning for her?' And she answered, 'I am in deep
mourning for my dead happiness, child!'"

"For her dead honor, she might have said!"

"Father! the absent are like the dead; they cannot defend
themselves," said Ishmael.

"That is true; and I stand rebuked! And henceforth, whatever I may
think, I will never speak evil of the Countess of Hurstmonceux."

"Go farther yet, dear sir! seek an explanation with her, and my word
on it she will be able to confute the calumnies, or clear up the
suspicious circumstances or whatever it may have been that has
shaken your confidence in her, and kept you apart so long."

"Ishmael it is a subject that I have never broached to the countess,
and one that I could not endure to discuss with her!"

"What, my father? Would you forever condemn her unheard? We do not
treat our worst criminals so!"

"Spare me, my son! for I have spared her!"

"If by sparing her you mean that you have left her alone, you had
better not spared her; you had better sought divorce; then one of
two things would have happened--either she would have disproved the
charges brought against her, or she would have been set free! either
alternative much better than her present condition."

"I could not drag my domestic troubles into a public courtroom,
Ishmael!"

"Not when justice required it, father?--But you are going down into
the neighborhood of Brudenell Hall! You will hear of her from the
people among whom she lived for so many years, and who cherish her
memory as that of an angel of mercy, and--you will change your
opinion of her."

Herman Brudenell smiled incredulously, and then said:

"Apropos of my visit to Brudenell Hall! I hope, Ishmael, that you
will be able to join me there in the course of the summer?"

"Father, yes! I promise you to do so. I will be at pains to put my
business in such train as will enable me to visit you for a week or
two."

"Thanks, Ishmael! And now, do you know I think the first dinner bell
rang some time ago and it is time to dress?"

And Herman Brudenell arose, and after pressing Ishmael's hand, left
the library.

The interview furnished Ishmael with too much food for thought to
admit of his moving for some time. He sat by the table in a brown
study, reflecting upon all that he had heard, until he was suddenly
startled by the pealing out of the second bell. Then he sprang up,
hurried to his chamber, hastily arranged his toilet, and went down
into the dining room, where he found all the family already
assembled and waiting for him.




CHAPTER IV.

BEE.

  And coldly from that noble heart,
    In all its glowing youth,
  His lore had turned and spurned apart
    Its tenderness and truth--
  Let him alone to live, or die--
    Alone!--Yet, who is she?
  Some guardian angel from the sky,
    To bless and aid him?--Bee!
                                _--Anon._



Ishmael received many other invitations. One morning, while he was
seated at the table in his office, Walter Middleton entered, saying:

"Ishmael, leave reading over those stupid documents and listen to
me. I am going to Saratoga for a month. Come with me; it will do you
good."

"Thank you all the same, Walter; but I cannot leave the city now,"
said Ishmael.

"Nonsense! there is but little doing; and now, if ever, you should
take some recreation."

"But I am busy with getting up some troublesome cases for the next
term."

"And that's worse than nonsense! Leave the cases alone until the
court sits; take some rest and recreation and you will find it pay
well in renewed vigor of body and mind. I that tell you so am an M.
D., you know."

"I thank you, Dr. Middleton, and when I find myself growing weak I
will follow your prescription," smiled Ishmael, rising and beginning
to tie up his documents.

"And that's a signal for my dismissal, I suppose. Off to the City
Hall again this morning?" inquired Walter.

"Yes; to keep an appointment," replied Ishmael. And the friends
separated.

Later in the day, when the young attorney had returned and was
spending his leisure hour in going on with the book-packing, Judge
Merlin entered and threw himself into a chair and for some moments
watched the packer.

"What is that you are doing now, Ishmael? Oh, I see; doctoring a
sick book!"

"Well, I dislike to see a fine volume that has served us faithfully
and seen hard usage perish for the want of a moment's attention; it
is but that which is required when we have the mucilage at hand," he
said, smiling and pointing to the bottle and brush, and then
deposited the book in its packing-case.

"But that is not what I come to talk to you about. Have you found a
proper room for an office yet?"

"Yes; I have a suite of rooms on the first floor of a house on
Louisiana Avenue. The front room I shall use for a public office,
the middle one for a private office, and the back one, which opens
upon a pleasant porch and a garden, for a bedchamber; for I shall
lodge there and board with the family," replied Ishmael.

"That seems to be a pleasant arrangement. But, Ishmael, take my
advice and engage a clerk immediately;--you will want one before
long, anyhow--and put him in your rooms to watch your business, and
do you take a holiday. Come down to Tanglewood for a month. You need
the change. After the wilderness of houses and men you want the
world of trees and birds. At least I do, and I judge you by myself."

Ishmael smiled, thanked his kind friend cordially, and then, in
terms as courteous as he could devise, declined the invitation,
giving the same reasons for doing so that he had already given first
to Mr. Brudenell and next to Walter Middleton.

"Well, Ishmael, I will not urge you, for I know by past experience
when you have once made up your mind to a course of conduct you deem
right, nothing on earth will turn you aside from it. But see here!
why do you go through all that drudgery? Why not order Powers to
pack those books?"

"Powers is a pearl in his own way; but he cannot pack books; and
besides, he has no respect for them."

"No feeling, you mean! he would not dress their wounds before
putting them to bed in those boxes!"

"No."

"Well, 'a wilfu' mon maun ha' his way,'" said the judge, taking up
the evening paper and burying himself in its perusal. That same
night, while Ishmael, having finished his day's work, was refreshing
himself by strolling through the garden, inhaling the fragrance of
flowers, listening to the gleeful chirp of the joyous little
insects, and watching the light of the stars, he heard an advancing
step behind him, and presently his arm was taken by Mr. Middleton,
who, walking on with him, said:

"What are you going to do with yourself, Ishmael?"

"Put myself to work like a beaver!"

"Humph! that will be nothing new for you. But I came out here to
induce you to reconsider that resolution. I wish to persuade you to
join us at Beacon House. That high promontory stretching far out to
sea and exposed to all the sea breezes will be the very place to
recruit your health at. Come, what say you?"

Ishmael's eyes grew moist as he grasped Mr. Middleton's hand and
said:

"Three invitations of this sort I have already had--this is the
fourth. My friends are too kind. I know not how I have won such
friendship or deserved such kindness. But I cannot avail myself of
the pleasant quarters they offer me. I cannot, at present, leave
Washington, except at such a sacrifice of professional duties as
they would not wish me to make. Mr. Middleton, I thank you heartily
all the same."

"Well, Ishmael, I am sorry to lose your company; but not sorry for
the cause of the loss. The pressure of business that confines you to
the city during the recess argues much for your popularity and
success. But, my dear boy, pray consider my invitation as a standing
one, and promise me to avail yourself of it the first day you can do
so."

"Thank you; that I will gladly do, Mr. Middleton."

"And when you come, remain with us as long as you can without
neglecting your duty."

"Indeed I will."

At that moment a light rustle through the bushes was heard and Bee
joined them, saying:

"Papa, if I were to tell you the dew is falling heavily and the
grass is wet, and it is not good for you or Ishmael to be out here,
you might not heed me. But when I say that uncle has gone with
General Tourneysee to a political pow-wow, and mamma and myself are
quite alone and would like to amuse ourselves with a game of whist,
perhaps you will come in and be our partners."

"Why, certainly, Busy Bee; for if anyone in this world deserves play
after work it is you," replied Mr. Middleton.

"Right face! forward! march!" then said Bee; and she led her
captives out of the night air and into the house.

Early the next morning Ishmael was surprised by a fifth invitation
to a country house. It was contained in a letter from Reuben Gray,
which was as follows:

                          "Woodside,--Monday Morning.
"My Deer Ishmael:--Hannah and me, we hav bin a havin of a talk about
you. You see the judge he wrote to me a spell back, a orderin of me
to have the house got reddy for him comin home. And he menshunned,
permiskuously like, as you was not lookin that well as you orter.
But Hannah and me, we thort as how is was all along o that
botheration law business as you was upset on your helth. And as how
you'd get better when the Court riz. But now the Court is riz, and
pears like you aint no ways better from all accounts. And tell you
how we knowed. See Hannah and me, we got a letter from Mrs. Whaley
as keeps the 'Farmers.' Well she rote to Hannah and me to send her
up some chickins and duks and eggs and butter and other fresh frutes
and vegetubbles, which she sez as they doo ask sich onlawful prices
for em in the city markits as she cant conshuenshusly giv it. So she
wants Hannah and me to soopli her. And mabee we may and mabee we
maynt; but that's nyther here nur there. Wot Hannah and me wants to
say is this--as how Mrs. Whaley she met you in the street
incerdentul. And she sez as how she newer saw no wun look no wusser
than you do! Now, Ishmael, Hannah and me, we sees how it is. Youre
a-killin of yourself jest as fast as ever you can, which is no
better than Susanside, because it is agin natur and agin rillijun to
kill wunself for a livin. So Hannah and me, we wants you to drap
everythink rite outen your hands and kum home to us. Wot you want is
a plenty of good kuntre air and water, and nun o your stifeld up
streets and pizen pumps. And plenty o good kuntre eetin and drinkin
and nun o your sickly messes. So you kum. Hannah and me is got a
fine caff and fat lamm to kill soon as ever you git here. And lots o
young chickins and duks. And the gratest kwontity o frute, peeehes,
peers, plums, and kanterlopes and warter millions in plenty. And the
hamberg grapes is kummin on. And we hav got a noo cow, wun o the
sort cawld durrums, which she doo give the richest milk as ever you
drinked and if ennything will set you up it is that. And likewise we
hav got the noo fashund fowls as people are all runnin mad about.
They cawl em shank hyes pun count o there long leggs, which they is
about the longest as ever you saw. And the way them fowls doo stryde
and doo eet is a cawshun to housekeepers. They gobble up everything.
And wot doo you think. You know Sally's brestpin, as Jim bawt her
for a kristmus gift. Well she happened to drap it offen her buzzum,
inter the poultry yard, and soons ever she mist it she run rite out
after it; but the shank-hye rooster he run fastern she did with his
long legs and gobbled it rite down, afore his eyes. And the poor
gals bin a howlin and bawlin and brakin of her poor hart ebout it
ever since. She wanted us--Hannah and me to kill the shank-hye; to
git the brestpin; but as we had onlee a pare on em we tolde her how
it was too vallabel for that. But Hannah and me we give the shank
hye a dose of eepeekak, in hope it would make him throw up the
brestpin; but it dident; for the eepeekak set on his stomik like an
angel, as likewise did the brestpin; and Hannah and me thinks he
diggested em both. Well, they aint daintee in their wittels them
shank hyes. Now bee shure to kum, Ishmael. Hannah and me and the
young uns and Sally will awl be so glad to see you and you can role
in clover awl day if you like. And now I have ralely no more noose
to tell you; only that I rote this letter awl outen my own hed
without Hannah helpin of me. Dont you think as Ime improvin? Hannah
and the little uns and Sally jine me in luv to you mi deer Ishmael.
And Ime your effectshunit frend till deth do us part.
                                          "Reuben Gray.

"Post Cript. Ive jist redd this letter to Hannah. And she doo say as
every uther wurd is rote rong. I dont think they is; becawse Ive got
a sartain roole to spell rite; which is--I think how a word sownde
and then I spell it accordin. But law, Ishmael! ever sense Hannah
has been teechin them young uns o ourn to reede there primmers, shes
jest got to be the orfullest Bloo Stokkin as evver was. Dont tell
her I sed so tho, for she ralely is wun of the finest wimmin livin
and Ime prowd of her and her young uns. So no more at present onle
kum.
                                                 "R.G."

Grateful for this kind invitation as he had been for any that had
been given him, Ishmael sat down immediately and answered the
letter, saying to Reuben, as he had said to others, that he would
thankfully accept his offered hospitality as soon as his duties
would permit him to do so.

The last day of the family's sojourn in town came. On the morning of
that day Mr. Brudenell took leave of his friends and departed,
exacting from Ishmael a renewal of his promise to visit Brudenell
Hall in the course of the summer. On that last day Ishmael completed
the packing of the books and sent them off to the boat that was to
convey them to the Tanglewood landing. And then he had all his own
personal effects conveyed to his new lodgings. And finally he sought
an interview with Bee. That was not so easily obtained, however. Bee
was excessively busy on this last day. But Ishmael, with the
privilege of an inmate, went through the house, looking for her,
until he found her in the family storeroom, busy among the jars and
cans, and attended by her maids.

"Come in, Ishmael, for this concerns you," she said pleasantly.

And Ishmael entered, wondering what he could be supposed to have to
do with preserved fruits and potted meats.

Bee pointed to a box that was neatly packed with small jars, saying:

"There, Ishmael--there are some sealed fruits and vegetables, and
some spiced meats and fish, and a bachelor's lamp and kettle, in
that case which Ann is closing down. They are yours. Direct Jim
where to find your lodgings, and he will take them there in the
wheelbarrow. And there is a keg of crackers and biscuits to go with
them."

"Dearest Bee, I am very grateful; but why should you give me all
these things?" inquired Ishmael, in surprise.

"Because you are going away from home, and you will want them. Yes,
you will, Ishmael, though you don't think so now. Often business
will detain you out in the evening until after your boarding-house
supper is over. Then how nice to have the means at hand to get a
comfortable little meal for yourself in your own room without much
trouble. Why, Ishmael, we always put up such a box as this for
Walter when he leaves us. And do you think that mamma or I would
make any difference between you?"

"You have always been a dear--yes, the dearest of sisters to me! and
some day, Bee--" He stopped, and looked around. The maids were at
some distance, but still he felt that the family storeroom was not
exactly the place to say what was on his heart for her, so he
whispered the question:

"How long will you be engaged here, dear Bee?"

"Until tea time. It will take me quite as long as that to get
through what I have to do."

"And then, Bee?"

"Then I shall be at leisure to pass this last evening with you,
Ishmael," answered Bee, meeting his wish with the frankness of pure
affection.

"And will you walk with me in the garden after tea? It will be our
last stroll together there," he said rather sadly.

"Yes; I will walk with you, Ishmael. The garden is lovely just at
sunset."

"Thank you, dearest Bee. Ah! how many times a day I have occasion to
speak these words!"

"I wish you would leave them off altogether, then, Ishmael. I always
understand that you thank me far more than I deserve."

"Never! How could I? 'Thank you!' they are but two words. How could
they repay you, Bee? Dearest, this evening you shall know how much I
thank you. Until then, farewell." He pressed her hand and left her.

Now Ishmael was far too clear-sighted not to have seen that Bee had
fixed her pure maidenly affections upon him, and to see also that
Bee's choice was well approved by her parents, who had long loved
him as a son. While Ishmael's hands had been busy with the book-
packing his thoughts had been busy with Bee and with the problem
that her love presented him. He had loved Claudia with an all-
absorbing passion. But she had left him and married another, and so
stricken a deathblow to his love. But this love was dying very hard,
and in its death-struggles was rending and tearing the heart which
was its death-bed.

And in the meantime Bee's love was alive and healthy, and it was
fixed on him. He was not insensible, indifferent, ungrateful for
this dear love. Indeed, it was the sweetest solace that he had in
this world. He felt in the profoundest depths of his heart all the
loveliness of Bee's nature. And most tenderly he loved her--as a
younger sister. What then should he do? Offer to Bee the poor,
bleeding heart that Claudia had played with, broken, and cast aside
as worthless? All that was true, noble, and manly in Ishmael's
nature responded:

"God forbid!"

But what then should he do? Leave her to believe him insensible,
indifferent, ungrateful? Strike such a deathblow to her loving heart
as Claudia had stricken to his? All that was generous, affectionate
and devoted in Ishmael's nature cried out: "No! forbid it, angels in
heaven!"

But what then could he do? The magnanimity of his nature answered:

"Open your heart to her; that she may know all that is in it; then
lay that heart at her feet, for accepting or rejecting."

And this he resolved to do. And this resolution sent him to beg this
interview with Bee. Yet before going to keep it he determined to
speak to Mr. Middleton. He felt certain that Mr. Middleton would
indorse his addresses to his daughter; yet still his fine sense of
honor constrained him to seek the consent of the father before
proposing to the daughter. And with this view in mind immediately
upon leaving Bee he sought Mr. Middleton.

He found that gentleman walking about in the garden, enjoying his
afternoon cigar. In these afternoon promenades Mr. Middleton, who
was the shorter and slighter as well as the older man, often did
Ishmael the honor of leaning upon his arm. And now Ishmael went up
to his side and with a smile silently offered the usual support.

"Thank you, my boy! I was just feeling the want of your friendly
arm. My limbs are apt to grow tired of walking before my eyes are
satiated with gazing or my mind with reflecting on the beauty of the
summer evening," said Mr. Middleton, slipping his arm within that of
Ishmael.

"Sir," said the young man, blushing slightly, "a selfish motive has
brought me to your side this afternoon."

"A selfish motive, Ishmael! I do not believe that you are capable of
entertaining one," smiled Mr. Middleton.

"Indeed, yes, sir; you will say so when you hear of it."

"Let me hear of it, then, Ishmael, for the novelty of the thing."

The young man hesitated for a few moments and then said:

"Mr. Middleton--Mr. Brudenell has, I believe, put you in possession
of the facts relative to my birth?"

"Yes, my dear Ishmael; but let me assure you that I did not need to
be told of them. Do you remember the conversation we had upon the
subject years ago? It was the morning after the school party when
that miserable craven, Alfred Burghe, disgraced himself by insulting
you. You said, Ishmael, 'My mother was a pure and honorable woman!
Oh, believe it!' I did believe it then, Ishmael; for your words and
tones and manner carried irresistible conviction to my mind. And
every year since I have been confirmed in my belief. You, Ishmael,
are the pledge of your parents' honor as well as of their love. 'Men
do not gather grapes of thorns, nor figs of thistles,'" said Mr.
Middleton earnestly.

"And yet, sir, I have suffered and may again suffer reproach that
neither myself nor my parents deserved," said Ishmael gravely.

"You never will again, Ishmael. You have overcome the world."

"Thank you! thank you, sir! I purposely reminded you of this old
injustice. You do not regard me the less for having suffered it?"

"The less! No, my boy; but the more, for having overcome it!"

"Again I thank you from the depths of my heart. You have known me
from boyhood, Mr. Middleton; and you may be said to know my
character and my prospects better than anyone else in the world
does; better, even, than I know them myself."

"I think that quite likely to be true."

"Well, sir, I hope in a few years to gain an established reputation
and a moderate competency by my practice at the bar."

"You will gain fame and wealth, Ishmael."

"Well, sir, if ever by the blessing of Heaven I do attain these
distinctions, taking everything else into consideration, would you,
sir, would you then--"

"What, Ishmael? Speak out, my boy?"

"Accept me as a son?"

"Do you want me to give you Bee?" gravely inquired Mr. Middleton.

"When I shall be more worthy of her, I do."

"Have you Bee's consent to speak to me on this subject?"

"No, sir; I have not yet addressed Miss Middleton. I could not
venture to do so without your sanction. It is to obtain it that I
have come to you this evening. I would like very much to have an
understanding with Miss Middleton before we part for an indefinite
time."

Mr. Middleton fell into deep thought. It was some minutes before he
spoke. When he did, it was to say:

"Ishmael, Bee is my eldest daughter and favorite child."

"I know it, sir," answered the young man.

"Parents ought not to have favorites among their children; but how
can I help it? Bee is almost an angel."

"I know it, sir," said Ishmael.

"Oh, yes; you know it! you know it!" exclaimed Mr. Middleton, half
laughing and not far from crying; "but do you know what you do when
you ask a father to give up his best beloved daughter?"

"Indeed I think I do, sir; but--daughters must some time or other
become wives," said Ishmael, with a deprecating smile.

"Yes, it is true!" sighed Mr. Middleton. "Well, Ishmael, since in
the course of nature I must some day give my dear daughter up, I
would rather give her to you than to any man on earth, for I have a
great esteem and affection for you, Ishmael."

"Indeed, sir, it is mutual!" replied the young man, grasping the
hand of his friend.

"It is just the state of feeling that should exist between father-
and son-in-law," said Mr. Middleton.

"I have your sanction, then, to speak to Bee?"

"Yes, Ishmael, yes; I will give her to you! But not yet, my dear
boy; for several reasons not just yet! You are both very young yet;
you are but little over twenty-one; she scarcely nineteen; and
besides her mother still needs her assistance in taking care of the
children; and I--must get used to the idea of parting with her; so
you must wait a year or two longer, Ishmael! She is well worth
waiting for."

"I know it! Oh, I know it well, sir! I have seen women as beautiful,
as amiable, and as accomplished; but I never, no, never met with one
so 'altogether lovely' as Bee! And I thank you, sir! Oh, I thank you
more than tongue can tell for the boon you have granted me. You will
not lose your daughter, sir; but you will gain a son; and I will be
a true son to you. sir, as Heaven hears me! And to her I will be a
true lover and husband. Her happiness shall be the very first object
in my life, sir; nothing in this world over which I have the
slightest control shall be suffered to come into competition with
it."

"I am--I am sure of that, my boy!" replied Mr. Middleton, in a
broken voice.

"And I do not presume to wish to hurry either you or her, sir; I am
willing to wait your leisure and hers; all I want now is to have an
understanding with Bee, and to be admitted to the privileges of an
accepted lover. You could trust me so far, sir?"

"Trust you so far! Why, Ishmael, there is no limit to my trust in
you!"

"And Mrs. Middleton, sir?"

"Why, Ishmael, she loves you as one of her own children; and I do
think you would disappoint and grieve her if you were to marry out
of the family. I will break the matter to Mrs. Middleton. Go find
Bee, and speak to her of this matter, and when you have won her
consent, bring her to me that I may join your hands and bless your
betrothal."

Ishmael fervently pressed the hand of his kind friend and left him.

Of course Bee, who was still busy with her maids in the store-room,
was not to be spoken to on that subject at that hour. But Ishmael
went up to his own room to reflect.

Perhaps the whole key to Ishmael's conduct in this affair might have
been found in the words he used when pleading with his father the
cause of the Countess of Hurstmonceux; he said:

"It seems to me, if any young lady had loved me so, I must have
loved her fondly in return; I could not have helped doing so."

And he could not. There was something too warm, generous, and noble
in Nora's son to be so insensible as all that.

His inspiration also instructed him that not the beautiful and
imperious Claudia, but the lovely and loving Bee was his Heaven-
appointed wife.

He was inspired when in his agony that dreadful night he had cried
out: "By a woman came sin and death into the world, and by a woman
came redemption and salvation! Oh! Claudia, my Eve, farewell! And
Bee, my Mary, hail!"

And now that he was about to betroth himself to Bee, and make her
happy, he himself felt happier than he had been for many days. He
felt sure, too, that when his heart should recover from its wounds
he should love Bee with a deeper, higher, purer, and more lasting
affection than ever his fierce passion for Claudia could have
become.




CHAPTER V.

SECOND LOVE.

  The maiden loved the young man well,
    And pined for many a day,
  Because that star-eyed, queenly belle
    Had won his heart away.
  But now the young man chooses well
    Between the beauteous pair,
  The proud and brilliant dark-haired belle,
    And gentle maiden fair.
                        --_M. F. Tupper_



After tea Ishmael, having missed Bee from the drawing room, went out
into the garden, expecting to find her there. Not seeing her, he
walked up and down the gravel walk, waiting for her appearance.

Presently she came up, softly and silently, and joined him.

"Thanks, dearest Bee," he said, as he drew her arm within his own.

"It is a beautiful evening, Ishmael; I have never seen the garden
look more lovely," said Bee.

And it was indeed a beautiful evening and a lovely scene. The sun
had just set; but all the western horizon and the waters of the
distant river were aflame with crimson fire of his reflected rays;
while over the eastern hills the moon and stars were shining from
the dark gray heavens. In the garden, the shrubs and flowers, not
yet damp with dew, were sending forth their richest fragrance; the
latest birds were twittering softly before settling themselves to
sleep in their leafy nests; and the earliest insects were tuning up
their tiny, gleeful pipes before commencing their evening concert.

"This garden is a very pleasant place, quite as pleasant as
Tanglewood, if uncle would only think so," said Bee.

"Yes, it is very pleasant. You do not like the plan of returning to
the country, Bee?" said Ishmael.

"No, indeed, I do not; breaking up and parting is always a painful
process." And Bee's lips quivered and the tears came into her eyes.

Ishmael pressed the little hand that lay light as a snowflake on his
arm, drew it closer within his embrace, and turned down the narrow
path that led to the remote arbor situated far down in the angle of
the wall in the bottom of the garden.

He led her to a seat, placed himself beside her, took her hand, and
said:

"It is here, dearest Bee--here in the scene of my humiliation and of
my redemption--that I would say to you all I have to say; that I
would lay my heart open before you, and place it at your feet, for
spurning, or for blessing."

She looked up at him with surprise, but also with infinite affection
in her innocent and beautiful eyes. Then, as she read the truth in
his earnest gaze, her eyes fell, and her color rose.

"And dearest Bee, I have your father's sanction for what I do, for
without it I would not act."

Her eyes were still fixed upon the ground, but her hand that he
clasped in his throbbed like a heart. And oh! he felt how entirely
she loved him; and he felt that he could devote his whole life to
her.

"Dearest of all dear ones, Bee, listen to me. Not many days have
passed, since, one evening, you came to this arbor, seeking one that
was lost and found--me!"

She began to tremble.

"You know how you found me, Bee," he said sadly and solemnly.

"Oh, Ishmael, dear!" she cried, with an accent of sharp pain, "do
not speak of that evening! forget it and let me forget it! it is
past!"

"Dearest girl, only this once will I pain you by alluding to that
sorrowful and degrading hour. You found me--I will not shrink from
uttering the word, though it will scorch my lips to speak it and
burn your ears to hear it--you found me--intoxicated."

"Oh, Ishmael, dear, you were not to blame! it was not your fault! it
was an accident--a misfortune!" she exclaimed, as blushes burned
upon her cheeks and tears suffused her eyes.

"How much I blamed, how much I loathed myself, dearest Bee, you can
never know! Let that pass. You found me as I said. Actually and
bodily I was lying on this bench, sleeping the stupid sleep of
intoxication; but morally and spiritually I was slipping over the
brink of an awful chasm. Bee, dearest Bee! dearest saving angel! it
was this little hand of yours that drew me back, so softly that I
scarcely knew I had been in danger of ruin until that danger was
past. And, Bee, since that day many days of storm have passed, but
the face of my saving angel has ever looked out from among the
darkest clouds a bright rainbow of promise. I did not perish in the
storm, because her sweet face ever looked down upon me!"

Bee did not attempt to reply; she could not; she sat with her
flushed and tearful eyes bent upon the ground.

"Love, do you know this token?" he inquired, in a voice shaking with
agitation, as he drew from his bosom a little wisp of white cambric
and laid it in her lap.

"It is my--my--" she essayed to answer, but her voice failed.

"It is your dear handkerchief," he said, as he took it, pressed it
to his lips, and replaced it in his bosom. "It is your dear
handkerchief! When you found me as you did, in your loving kindness
you laid it over my face--mine! so utterly unworthy to be so
delicately veiled! Oh, Bee, if I could express to you all I felt!
all I thought! when I recognized this dear token and so discovered
who it was that had sought me when I was lost, and dropped tears of
sorrow over me! and then covered my face from the blistering sun and
the stinging flies--if I could tell you all that I suffered and
resolved, then you would feel and know how earnest and sincere is
the heart that at last--at last, my darling, I lay at your beloved
feet."

She looked up at him for a moment and breathed a single word--a name
that seemed to escape her lips quite involuntarily--"Claudia!"

"Yes, my darling," he said, in tones vibrating with emotion, "it is
as you suppose, or rather it was so! You have divined my secret,
which indeed I never intended to keep as a secret from you. Yes,
Bee; I loved another before loving you. I loved her whom you have
just named. I love her no longer. When by her marriage with another
my love would have become sinful, it was sentenced to death and
executed. But, Bee, it died hard, very hard; and in its violent
death-throes it rent and tore my heart, as the evil spirit did the
possessed man, when it was driven out of him. Bee, my darling," said
Ishmael, smiling for the first time since commencing the interview,
"this may seem to you a very fanciful way of putting the case; but
is a good one, for in no other manner could I give you to understand
how terrible my sufferings have been for the last few weeks, how
completely my evil passion has perished; and yet how sore and weak
it has left my heart. Bee, it is this heart, wounded and bleeding
from a dead love, yet true and single in its affection for you, that
I open before you and lay at your feet. Spurn it away from you, Bee,
and I cannot blame you. Raise it to your own and I shall love and
bless you."

Bee burst into tears.

He put his arm around her and drew her to his side and she dropped
her head upon his shoulder and wept passionately. Many times she
tried to speak, but failed. At last, when she had exhausted all her
passion, she raised her head from its resting-place. He wiped the
tears from her eyes and stooping, whispered:

"You will not reject me, Bee, because I loved another woman once?"

"No," she answered softly, "for if you loved another woman before
me, you could not help it, Ishmael. It is not that I am concerned
about."

"What then, dearest love? Speak out," he whispered.

"Oh, Ishmael, tell me truly one thing;" and she hid her face on his
shoulder while she breathed the question: "Isn't it only for my
sake, to please me and make me happy, that you offer me your love,
Ishmael?" She spoke so low, with her face so muffled on his
shoulder, that he scarcely understood her; so he bent his head and
inquired:

"What is it that you say, dear Bee?"

She tried to speak more clearly, for it seemed with her a point of
principle to put this question; but her voice was, if possible,
lower and more agitated than before, so that he had to stoop closely
and listen intently to catch her words as she answered:

"Do you not offer me your love, only because--because you have found
out--found out somehow or other that I--that I loved you first?"

He clasped her suddenly close to his heart, and whispered eagerly:

"I offer you my love because I love you, best and dearest of all
dear ones!" And he felt at that moment that he did love her
entirely.

She was sobbing softly on his shoulder; but presently through her
tears she said:

"And will my love do you any good, make you any happier, compensate
you a little for all that you have missed in losing that brilliant
one?"

He held her closely to his heart while he stooped and answered:

"Dearest, your love has always been the greatest earthly blessing
Heaven ever bestowed upon my life! I thank Heaven that the blindness
and madness of my heart is past and gone, and I am enabled to see
and understand this! Your love, Bee, is the only earthly thing that
can comfort all the sorrows that may come into my life, or crown all
its joys. You will believe this, dearest Bee, when you remember that
I never in my life varied from the truth to anyone, and least of all
would I prevaricate with you. I love you. Bee, let those three words
answer all your doubts!"

Brightly and beautifully she smiled up at him through her tears.

"All is well, then, Ishmael! For all that I desire in this world is
the privilege of making you happy!"

"Then you are my own!" he said, stooping and kissing the sparkling
tears that hung like dew-drops on the red roses of her cheeks; and
holding her to his heart, in profound religious joy and gratitude,
he bowed his head and said:

"Oh, Father in Heaven! how I thank thee for this dear girl! Oh, make
me every day more worthy of her love, and of thy many blessings!"

And soon after this Ishmael, happier than he ever thought it
possible to be in this world, led forth from the arbor his betrothed
bride.

He led her at once to the house and to the presence of her parents,
whom he found in their private sitting room.

Standing before them and holding her hand, he said:

"She has promised to be my wife, and we are here for your blessing."

"You have it, my children! You have it with all my heart! May the
Lord in heaven bless with his choicest blessings Ishmael and
Beatrice!" said Mr. Middleton earnestly.

"Amen," said Mrs. Middleton.

Later in the evening Judge Merlin was informed of the engagement.
And after congratulating the betrothed pair he turned to Mr. and
Mrs. Middleton and said:

"Heaven knows how I envy you your son-in-law."

The gratified parents smiled, for they were proud of Ishmael, and
what he would become. But Walter Middleton grinned and said:

"Heaven may know that, Uncle Merlin; but I know one thing!"

"What is that, Jackanapes?"

"I know they may thank Bee for their son-in-law, for she did all the
courting!"

The panic-stricken party remained silent for a moment, and then
Judge Merlin said:

"Well, sir! I know another thing!"

"And what is that, uncle?"

"That it will be a long time before you find a young lady to do you
such an honor!"

Everybody laughed, not at the brilliancy of the joke, for the joke
was not brilliant, but because they were happy; and when people are
happy they do honor to very indifferent jests.

But Bee turned a ludicrously appalled look upon her lover and
whispered:

"Oh, Ishmael! suppose he had known about that little bit of white
cambric. He would have said that I had 'thrown the handkerchief' to
you! And so I did! it is a dreadful reflection!"

"That handkerchief was a plank thrown to the drowning, Bee. It saved
me from being whelmed in the waves of ruin. Oh, dearest, under
heaven, you were my salvation!" said Ishmael, with emotion.

"Your comfort, Ishmael--only your comfort. Your own right-
mindedness, 'under heaven,' would have saved you."

This was the last and the happiest evening they all spent at the
city home together. Early in the morning they separated.

Judge Merlin and his servants started for Tanglewood, and Mr. and
Mrs. Middleton and their family for The Beacon, where Ishmael
promised as soon as possible to join them. Walter Middleton left for
Saratoga. And, last of all, Ishmael locked up the empty house, took
charge of the key, and departed to take possession of his new
lodgings--alone, but blessed and happy.




CHAPTER VI.

AT WOODSIDE.

  Who can describe the sweets of country life
  But those blest men that do enjoy and taste them?
  Plain husbandmen, though far below our pitch
  Of fortune placed, enjoy a wealth above us:
  They breathe a fresh and uncorrupted air,
  And in sweet homes enjoy untroubled sleep.
  Their state is fearless and secure, enriched
  With several blessings such as greatest kings
  Might in true justice envy, and themselves
  Would count too happy if they truly knew them.
                                      --_May._



Ishmael was settled in his new apartments on the first floor of a
comfortable house on Louisiana Avenue. The front room opening upon
the street, and having his name and profession engraved upon a
silver plate attached to the door, was his public office; the middle
room was his private office; and the back room, which opened upon a
pleasant porch leading into the garden, was his bed-chamber.

The house was kept by two sisters, maiden ladies of venerable age,
who took no other boarders or lodgers.

So, upon the whole, Ishmael's quarters were very comfortable.

The rapid increase of his business justified him in taking a clerk;
and then in a week or two, as he saw this clerk over-tasked, he took
a second; both young men who had not been very successful
barristers, but who were very good office lawyers.

And Ishmael's affairs went on "swimmingly."

Of course there were hours when he sadly missed the companionship of
the congenial family circle with whom he had been so long connected;
but Ishmael was not one to murmur over the ordinary troubles of
life. He rather made the best of his position and steadily looked on
the bright side.

Besides, he maintained a regular correspondence with his friends.
That correspondence was the only recreation and solace he allowed
himself.

Almost every day he wrote to Bee, and he received answers to every
one of his letters--answers full of affection, encouragement, and
cheerfulness.

And at least once a week he got letters from Judge Merlin, Mr.
Middleton, and Mr. Brudenell, all of whom continued to urge him to
pay them visits as soon as his business would permit. Only one more
letter he got from Reuben Gray; for letter writing was to poor
Reuben a most difficult and dreaded task; and this one was merely to
say that they should expect Ishmael down soon.

From Judge Merlin's letters it appeared that Lord and Lady Vincent
had extended their tour into Canada East, and were now in the
neighborhood of the "Thousand Isles," but that they expected to
visit the judge at Tanglewood some time during the autumn; after
which they intended to sail for Europe.

Ishmael continued to push his business for six or seven weeks, so
that it was near the first of September before he found leisure to
take a holiday and pay his promised visits.

Two weeks was the utmost length of time he could allow himself. And
there were four places that seemed to have equal claims upon his
society. Where should he go first? Truly Ishmael was embarrassed
with the riches of his friendships.

At Woodside were Hannah and Reuben, who had cared for him in his
orphaned infancy, and who really seemed to have the first right to
him.

And at Tanglewood Judge Merlin was alone, moping for the want of his
lost daughter and needing the consolation of a visit from Ishmael.

At the Beacon was his betrothed bride, who was also anxious to see
him.

And finally, at Brudenell Hall was Herman Brudenell; and Herman
Brudenell was--his father!

After a little reflection Ishmael's right-mindedness decided in
favor of Woodside. Hannah had stood in his mother's place towards
him, and to Hannah he would go first.

So, to get there by the shortest route, Ishmael took passage in the
little steamer "Errand Boy," that left Georgetown every week for the
mouth of the river, stopping at all the intervening landing-places.

Ishmael started on Friday morning and on Saturday afternoon was set
ashore at Shelton, whence a pleasant walk of three miles through the
forest that bordered the river brought him to Woodside.

Clean and cheerful was the cottage, gleaming whitely forth here and
there from its shadowy green foliage and clustering red roses. The
cottage and the fence had been repainted, and the gravel walk that
led from the wicket-gate to the front door had been trimmed and
rolled. And very dainty looked the white, fringed curtains and the
green paper blinds at the front windows.

Evidently everything had been brightened up and put into holiday
attire to welcome Ishmael.

While his hand was on the latch of the gate he was perceived from
within, and the front door flew open and all the family rushed out
to receive him--Reuben and Hannah, and the two children and Sally
and the dog--the latter was as noisy and sincere in his welcome as
any of the human friends, barking round and round the group to
express his sympathy and joy and congratulations.

"I telled Hannah how you'd come to us fust; I did! Didn't I, Hannah,
my dear?" said Reuben triumphantly, as he shook both Ishmael's hands
with an energy worthy of a blacksmith.

"Well, I knew he would too! It didn't need a prophet nor one to rise
from the dead to tell us that Ishmael would be true to his old
friends," said Hannah, pushing Reuben away and embracing Ishmael
with a--

"How do you do, my boy? You look better than I expected to see you
after your hard year's work."

"Oh, I am all right, thank you, Aunt Hannah. Coming to see you has
set me up!" laughed Ishmael, cordially returning her embrace.

"You, Sally! what are you doing there? grinning like a monkey? Go
directly and make the kettle boil, and set the table. And tell that
Jim, that's always loafing around you, to make himself useful as
well as ornamental, and open them oysters that were brought from
Cove Banks to-day. Why don't you go? what are you waiting for?"

"Please 'm, I hav'n't shook hands long o' Marse Ishmael yet," said
Sally, showing all her fine ivories.

Ishmael stepped forward and held out his hand, saying, as he kindly
shook the girl's fat paw:

"How do you do, Sally? You grow better looking every day! And I have
got a pretty coral breastpin in my trunk for you, to make up for
that one the shanghai swallowed."

"Oh, Marse Ishmael, you needn't have taken no trouble, not on my
account, sir, I am sure; dough I'm thousand times obleege to you,
and shall be proud o' de breas'pin, 'cause I does love breas'pins,
'specially coral," said Sally, courtesying and smiling all over her
face.

"Well, well," said Hannah impatiently, "now be off with you
directly, and show your thankfulness by getting supper for your
Marse Ishmael as quick as ever you can. Never mind the table--I'll
set that."

Sally dropped another courtesy and vanished.

"Where did you say your trunk was, Ishmael?" inquired Gray, as they
walked into the house.

"He never said it was anywhere; he only said he had a coral
breastpin in it for Sally," put in the literal Hannah.

"My trunk is at the Steamboat Hotel in Shelton, Uncle Reuben. I
could not at once find a cart to bring it over, for I was too
anxious to see you all to spend time looking for one. So I left it
with the landlord, with orders to forward it on Monday."

"Oh, sho! And what are you to do in the meantime? And Sally'll go
crazy for a sight of her breastpin! So I'll just go out and make Sam
put the horse to the light wagon, and go right after it; he'll jest
have time to go and get it and come back afore it's dark," said
Reuben; and without waiting to hear any of Ishmael's remonstrances,
he went out immediately to give his orders to Sam.

Hannah followed Ishmael up to his own old room in the garret, to see
that he had fresh water, fine soap, clean towels, and all that was
requisite for his comfort.

And then leaving him to refresh himself with a wash, she returned
downstairs to set the table for tea.

By the time she had laid her best damask table-cloth, and set out
her best japan waiter and china tea-set, and put her nicest
preserves in cut glass saucers, and set the iced plumcake in the
middle of the table, Ishmael, looking fresh from his renewed toilet,
came down into the parlor.

She immediately drew forward the easiest arm-chair for his
accommodation.

He sat down in it and called the two children and the dog, who all
gathered around him for their share of his caresses.

And at the same moment Reuben, having dispatched Sam on his errand
to Shelton, came in and sat down, with his big hands on his knees,
and his head bent forward, contemplating the group around Ishmael
with immense satisfaction.

Hannah was going in and out between the parlor and the pantry
bringing cream, butter, butter-milk, and so forth.

Ishmael lifted John upon his knees, and while smoothing back the
flaxen curls from the child's well-shaped forehead, said:

"This little fellow has got a great deal in this head of his! What
do you intend to make of him, Uncle Reuben?"

"Law, Ishmael, how can I tell!" grinned Reuben.

"You should give him an education and fit him for one of the learned
professions; or, no; I will do that, if Heaven spares us both!" said
Ishmael benevolently; then smiling down upon the child, he said:

"What would you like to be when you grow up, Johnny?"

"I don't know," answered inexperience.

"Would you like to be a lawyer?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I wouldn't."

"Satisfactory! Would you like to be a doctor?"

"'No."

"Why?"

"'Cause I wouldn't."

"'As before.' Would you like to be a parson?"

"No."

"Why?"

"'Cause I wouldn't."

"Sharp little fellow, isn't he, Ishmael? Got his answer always
ready!" said the father, rubbing his knees in delight.

Ishmael smiled at Reuben Gray and then turned to the child and said:

"What would you like to be, Johnny?"

"Well, I'd like to be a cart-driver like Sam, and drive the ox
team!"

"Aspiring young gentleman!" said Ishmael, smiling.

"There now," said Hannah, who had heard the latter part of this
conversation, "that's what I tell Reuben. He needn't think he is
going to make ladies and gentlemen out of our children. They are
just good honest workman's children, and will always be so; for
'what's bred in the bone will never come out in the flesh'; and
'trot mammy, trot daddy, the colt will never pace.' Cart-driver!"
mocked Hannah, in intense disgust.

"Nonsense, Aunt Hannah! Why, don't you know that when I was Johnny's
age my highest earthly ambition was to become a professor of odd
jobs, like the renowned Jim Morris, who was certainly the greatest
man of my acquaintance!"

While they were chatting away in this manner Sally brought in the
coffee and tea, which was soon followed by dishes of fried oysters,
stewed oysters, fried ham, and broiled chicken, and plates of
waffles, rolls, and biscuits, and in fact by all the luxuries of a
Maryland supper.

Hannah took her place at the head of the table and called her family
around her.

And all sat down at the board. Even the dog squatted himself down by
the side of Ishmael, where he knew he was sure of good treatment.
Sally, neatly dressed, waited on the table. And presently Jim, who
had a holiday this Saturday evening and was spending it with Sally,
came in, and after shaking hands with "Mr. Ishmael" and welcoming
him to the neighborhood, stood behind his chair and anticipated his
wants as if he, Jim, had been lord-in-waiting upon a prince.

When supper was over and the service cleared away, Ishmael, Reuben,
Hannah, and the children, who had been allowed to sit up a little
longer in honor of Ishmael's visit, gathered together on the front
porch to enjoy the delicious coolness of the clear, starlit, summer
evening.

While they were still sitting there, chatting over the old times and
the new days, the sound of wheels were heard approaching, and Sam
drove up in the wagon, in which was Ishmael's trunk and a large box.

Jim was called in from the kitchen, where he had been engaged in
making love to Sally, to assist in lifting the luggage in.

The trunk and the box were deposited in the middle of the parlor
floor to be opened,--because, forsooth, all that simple family
wished to be present and look on at the opening.

Ishmael's personal effects were in the trunk they guessed; but what
was in the box? that was the riddle and they could not solve it.
Both the children pressed forward to see. Even the dog stood with
his ears pricked, his nose straight and his eyes fixed on the
interesting box as though he expected a fox to break cover from it
as soon as it was opened.

Ishmael had mercy on their curiosity and ended their suspense by
ripping off the cover.

And lo! a handsome hobby-horse which he took out and set up before
the delighted eyes of Johnny.

He lifted the tiny man into the saddle, fixed his feet in the
stirrups, gave him the bridle, and showed him how to manage his
steed.

"There, Johnny," said Ishmael, "I cannot realize your aspirations in
respect to the driver's seat on the ox-cart, but I think this will
do for the present."

"Ah, yes!" cried the ecstatic Johnny, "put Molly up behind! put
Molly up behind and let her sit and hold on to me! My horse can
carry double."

"Never mind! I've got something for Molly that she will like better
than that," said Ishmael, smiling kindly on the little girl, who
stood with her finger in her mouth looking as if she thought herself
rather neglected.

And he unlocked his trunk and took from the top of it a large,
finely painted, substantially dressed wooden doll, that looked as if
it could bear a great deal of knocking about without injury.

Molly made an impulsive spring towards this treasure, and was
immediately rendered happy by its possession.

Then Sally was elevated to the seventh heaven by the gift of the
coral breastpin.

Hannah received a handsome brown silk dress and Reuben a new
writing-desk, and Sam a silver watch, and Jim a showy vest-pattern.

And Ishmael, having distributed his presents, ordered his trunk to
be carried upstairs, and the box into the outhouse.

When the children were tired of their play Hannah took them off to
hear them say their prayers and put them to bed.

And then Ishmael and Reuben were left alone.

And the opportunity that Ishmael wanted had come.

He could have spoken of his parents to either Hannah or Reuben
separately; but he felt that he could not enter upon the subject in
the presence of both together.

Now he drew his chair to the side of Gray and said:

"Uncle Reuben, I have something serious to say to you."

"Eh! Ishmael! what have I been doing of? I dessay something wrong in
the bringing up of the young uns!" said Reuben, in dismay, expecting
to be court-martialed upon some grave charge.

"It is of my parents that I wish to speak, Uncle Reuben."

"Oh!" said the latter, with an air of relief.

"You knew my mother, Uncle Reuben; but did you know who my father
was?"

"No," said Reuben thoughtfully. "All I knowed was as he married of
your mother in a private manner, and from sarcumstances never owned
up to it; but left her name and yourn to suffer for it--the cowardly
rascal, whoever he was!"

"Hush, Uncle Reuben, hush! You are speaking of my father!"

"And a nice father he wur to let your good mother's fair name come
to grief and leave you to perish a'most!"

"Uncle Reuben, you know too little of the circumstances to be able
to judge!"

"Law, Ishmael, it takes but little knowledge and less judgment to
understand, as when a feller fersakes his wife and child for
nothink, and leaves 'em to suffer undesarved scandal and cruel want,
he must be an unnatural monster and a parjured vilyun!"

"Uncle Reuben, you are unjust to my father! You must listen to his
vindication from my lips, and then you will acquit him of all blame.
But first I must tell you in confidence his name--it is Herman
Brudenell!"

"There now!" exclaimed Reuben, dropping his pipe in his
astonishment; "to think that I had that fact right afore my eyes all
my life and never could see it! Well, of all the blind moles and
owls, I must a been the blindest! And to think as I was the very
first as warned the poor girl agin him at that birthday feast! But,
law, arter that I never saw them together agin, no, not once! So I
had no cause to s'picion him, no more nor others! Well and now,
Ishmael, tell me all how and about it! Long as it was him, Mr.
Herman, there must a been something uncommon about it, for I don't
believe he'd do anythink dishonorable, not if he knowed it!"

"Not if he knew it! You are right there, Uncle Reuben," said
Ishmael, who immediately related the tragic story of his parents'
marriage, ending with the family wreck that had ruined all their
happiness.

"Dear me! dear, dear me! what a sorrowful story for all hands, to be
sure! Well, Ishmael, whoever was most to be pitied in former times,
your father is most to be pitied now. Be good to him," said Reuben.

"You may be sure that I will do all that I can to comfort my father,
Uncle Reuben. And now a word to you! Speak of this matter to me
alone whenever you like; or to Aunt Hannah alone whenever you like;
but to no others; and not even to us when we are together! for I
cannot bear that this old tragic history should become the subject
of general conversation."

"I know, Ishmael, my boy, I know! Mum's the word!" said Reuben.

And the entrance of Hannah at that moment put an end to the
conversation.

There was one subject upon which Ishmael felt a little uneasiness--
the dread of meeting Claudia.

He knew that she was not expected at Tanglewood until the first of
October; for so the judge had informed him in a letter that he had
received the very night before he left Washington. And this was only
the first of September; and he intended to give himself but two
weeks' holiday and to be back at his office by the fourteenth at
farthest, full sixteen days before the expected arrival of Lord and
Lady Vincent at Tanglewood.

Yet this dread of meeting Claudia haunted him. His love was dead;
but as he had told Bee, it had died hard and rent his heart in its
death-struggles, and that heart was sore to the touch of her
presence.

The judge's letter wherein he had spoken of the date of his daughter
and son-in-law's visit had been written several days previous to
this evening, and since that, news might have come from them,
speaking of some change of plan, involving an earlier visit.

These Ishmael felt were the mere chimeras of imagination. Still he
thought he would inquire concerning the family at Tanglewood.

"They are all well up at the house, I hope, Uncle Reuben?" he asked.

"Famous! And having everything shined up bright as a new shilling,
in honor of the arrival of my lord and my lady, who are expected,
come first o' next mont'."

"On the first of October? Are you sure?"

"On the first of October, sharp! Not a day earlier or later! I was
up to the house yes'day afternoon, just afore you come; and sure
enough the judge, he had just got a letter from the young madam,--my
lady, I mean,--in which she promised not to disappoint him, but to
be at Tanglewood punctually on the first of October to a day!"

Reuben, a hard-working man, who was "early to bed and early to
rise," concluded this speech with such an awful, uncompromising yawn
that Ishmael immediately took up and lighted his bedroom candle, bid
them all good-night, and retired.

He was once more in the humble little attic room where he had first
chanced upon a set of old law books and imbibed a taste for the
legal profession.

There was the old "screwtaw," as Reuben called it, and there was the
old well-thumbed volumes that had constituted his sole wealth of
books before he had the range of the well-filled library at
Tanglewood.

And there was the plain deal table standing within the dormer
window, where he had been accustomed to sit and read and write; or,
whenever he raised his head, to gaze out upon the ocean-like expanse
of water near the mouth of the Potomac.

After all, this humble attic chamber had many points of resemblance
with that more pretentious one he had occupied in Judge Merlin's
elegant mansion in Washington. Both were on the north side of the
Potomac. Each had a large dormer window looking southwest and
commanding an extensive view of the river; within the recess of each
window he had been accustomed to sit and read or write.

The only difference was that the window in the Washington attic
looked down upon the great city and the winding of the river among
wooded and rolling hills; while the window of the cottage here
looked down upon broad fields sloping to the shore, and upon the
vast sea-like expanse of water stretching out of sight under the
distant horizon.

The comparison between his two study-windows was in Ishmael's mind
as he stood gazing upon the shadowy green fields and the starlit sky
and water.

Not long he stood there; he was weary with his journey; so he
offered up his evening prayers and went to bed and to sleep.

Early in the morning he awoke, and arose to enjoy the beauty of a
summer Sunday in the quiet country. It was a deliciously cool,
bright, beautiful autumnal morning.

Ishmael looked out over land and water for a little while, and then
quickly dressed himself, offered up his morning prayers and went
below.

The family were already assembled in the parlor, and all greeted him
cordially.

The table was set, and Sally, neat in her Sunday clothes and
splendid in her coral brooch, was waiting ready to bring in the
breakfast.

And a fine breakfast it was, of fragrant coffee, rich cream, fresh
butter, Indian corn bread, Maryland biscuits, broiled birds, boiled
crabs, etc.

And Ishmael, upon whom the salt sea air of the coast was already
producing a healthful change, did ample justice to the luxuries
spread before him.

"For church this morning, Ishmael?" inquired Reuben.

"Yes; but I must walk over to Tanglewood and go with the judge. He
would scarcely ever forgive me if I were to go anywhere, even to
church, before visiting him."

"No more he wouldn't, that's a fact," admitted Reuben.




CHAPTER VII.

AT TANGLEWOOD.

  Are not the forests, waves and skies, a part
    Of me and of my soul as I of them?
  Is not the love of these deep in my heart
    With a pure passion? Should I not contemn
    All objects if compared with these? and stem
      A tide of sufferings, rather than forego
    Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm
  Of those whose eyes are only turned below,
  Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts that dare not glow?
                                      --_Byron_.



After breakfast Ishmael took his hat, and, promising to return in
the evening, set out for Tanglewood to spend the day and go to
church with the judge.

How he enjoyed that Sunday morning walk through the depths of the
forest that lay between Woodside and Tanglewood.

He reached the house just as the judge had finished breakfast. He
was shown into the room while the old man still lingered in sheer
listlessness over his empty cup and plate.

"Eh, Ishmael! is that you, my boy? Lord bless my soul, how glad I am
to see you! Old Jacob was never so glad to see Joseph as I am to see
you!" was the greeting of the judge, as he started up, overturning
his chair and seizing both his visitor's hands and shaking them
vigorously.

"And I am very glad indeed to see you again, sir! I hope you have
been well?" said Ishmael warmly, returning his greeting.

"Well? Hum, ha, how can I be well? What is that the poet says?

    "'What stamps the wrinkle deepest on the brow,
      It is to be alone as I am now!'

I miss Claudia, Ishmael. I miss her sadly."

"Lady Vincent will be with you soon, sir," observed Ishmael, in as
steady a voice as he could command.

"Yes, she will come on the first of October and stop with me for a
month. So her letter of Wednesday received yesterday says. And then
I shall lose her forever!" complained the judge, with a deep sigh.

"Ah, but you must look on the bright side, sir! You are independent.
You have time and money at your own disposal; and no very strong
ties here. You can visit Lady Vincent as often and stay with her as
long as you please," smiled Ishmael cheerfully.

"Why, so I can! I never thought of that before! I may certainly pass
at least half my time with my daughter if I please!" exclaimed the
old man, brightening up.

"Are you going to church this morning, sir?" inquired Ishmael.

"You are, of course!" said the judge; "for you take care never to
miss morning service! So I must go!"

"Not on my account. I know the road," smiled Ishmael.

"Oh, in any case I should go. I promised to go and dine at the
parsonage, so as to attend afternoon service also. And when I
mentioned to Mr. Wynne that I was expecting you down he requested
me, if you arrived in time, to bring you with me, as he was desirous
of forming your acquaintance. So you see, Ishmael, your fame is
spreading."

"I am very grateful to you and to Mr. Wynne," said Ishmael, as his
heart suddenly thrilled to the memory that Wynne was the name of the
minister who had united his parents in their secret marriage.

"Has Mr. Wynne been long in this parish?" he inquired.

"Some three or four months, I believe. This is his native State,
however. He used to be stationed at the Baymouth church, but left it
some years ago to go as a missionary to Farther India; but as of
late his health failed, he returned home and accepted the call to
take charge of this parish."

Ishmael looked wistfully in the face of the judge and said:

"It was very kind in Mr. Wynne to think of inviting me. Why do you
suppose he did it?"

"Why, I really do suppose that the report of your splendid successes
in Washington has reached him, and he feels some curiosity to see a
young man who in so short a time has attained so high a position."

"No, it is not that," said Ishmael, with a genuine blush at this
great praise; "but do you really not know what it is?"

"I do not, unless it is what I said," replied the judge, raising his
eyebrows.

"He married my parents, and baptized me; he knows that I bear my
mother's maiden name; and he was familiar with my early poverty and
struggles for life; he left the neighborhood when I was about eight
years old," said Ishmael, in a low voice.

The judge opened his eyes and drooped his head for a few moments,
and then said:

"Indeed! Your father, when he told me of his marriage with your
mother, did not mention the minister's name. Everything else, I
believe, he candidly revealed to me, under the seal of confidence;
this omission was accidental, and really unimportant. But how
surprised Brudenell will be to learn that his old friend and
confidant is stationed here."

"Yes."

"And now I can thoroughly understand the great interest Mr. Wynne
feels in you. It is not every minister who is the confidant in such
a domestic tragedy as that of your poor mother was, Ishmael. It is
not only the circumstances of your birth that interest him in you so
much, but those taken in connection with your recent successes. I
should advise you to meet Mr. Wynne's advances."

"I shall gratefully do so, sir."

"And now I really do suppose it is time to order the carriage, if we
mean to go to church to-day," said the judge, rising and touching
the bell.

Jim answered it.

"Have the gray horses put to the barouche and brought around. And
put a case of that old port wine in the box; I intend to take it as
a present to the parson. I always considered port a parsonic wine,
and it really is in this case just the thing for an invalid," said
the judge, turning to Ishmael as Jim left the room.

In twenty minutes the carriage was ready, and they started for the
church, which was some five miles distant. An hour's drive brought
them to it.

A picturesque scene that old St. Mary's church presented. It was
situated in a clearing of the forest beside the turnpike road. It
was built of red brick, and boasted twelve gothic windows and a tall
steeple. The church-yard was fenced in with a low brick wall, and
had some interesting old tombstones, whose dates were coeval with
the first settlement of the State.

Many carriages of every description, from the barouche of the
gentleman to the cart of the laborer, were scattered about, drawn up
under the shade of the trees. And saddle-horses and donkeys were
tied here and there. And groups of negroes, in their gay Sunday
attire, stood gossiping among the trees. Some young men, as usual,
were loitering at the church door.

The judge's carriage drew up under the shade of a forest tree, and
the judge and Ishmael then alighted, and leaving the horses in the
care of the coachman went into the church.

The congregation were already assembled, and soon after Judge Merlin
and his guest took their seats the minister entered and took his
place at the reading-desk and the services commenced.

There was little in this Sunday morning's service to distinguish it
from others of the same sort. The minister was a good man and a
plodding country parson. He read the morning prayers in a creditable
but by no means distinguished manner. And he preached a sermon, more
remarkable for its practical bearing than for its eloquence or
originality, his text being in these words: "Faith without works is
dead."

At the conclusion of the services, while the congregation were
leaving the church, the minister descended from his pulpit and
advanced towards Judge Merlin, who was also hastening to meet his
pastor.

There was a shaking of hands.

Judge Merlin, who was an eminently practical man in all matters but
one, complimented the preacher on his practical sermon.

And then without waiting to hear Mr. Wynne's disclaimer, he beckoned
Ishmael to step forward, and the usual formula of introduction was
performed.

"Mr. Wynne, permit me--Mr. Worth, Mr. Wynne!"

And then were two simultaneous bows and more handshaking.

But both the judge and Ishmael noticed the wistful look with which
the latter was regarded by the minister.

"He is comparing likenesses," thought the judge.

"He is thinking of the past and present," thought Ishmael.

And both were right.

Mr. Wynne saw in Ishmael the likeness to both his parents, and noted
how happily nature had distinguished him with the best points of
each. And he was wondering at the miracle of seeing that the all-
forsaken child, born to poverty, shame, and obscurity, was by the
Lord's blessing on his own persevering efforts certainly rising to
wealth, honor, and fame.

Mr. Wynne renewed his pressing invitation to Judge Merlin and Mr.
Worth to accompany him home to dinner.

And as they accepted the minister's hospitality the whole party
moved off towards the parsonage, which was situated in another
clearing of the forest about a quarter of a mile behind the church.

The parson was blessed with the parson's luck of a large family,
consisting of a wife, several sisters and sisters-in-law, and
nieces, and so many sons and daughters of all ages, from one month
old to twenty years, that the judge, after counting thirteen before
he came to the end of the list, gave up the job in despair.

Notwithstanding, or perhaps because of, this, for "the more, the
merrier," you know, the family dinner passed off pleasantly. And
after dinner they all returned to church to attend the afternoon
service.

And when that was ended Judge Merlin and Ishmael took leave of the
parson and his family and returned home.

When they reached Tanglewood and alighted, the judge, who was first
out, was accosted by his servant Jim, who spoke a few words in a low
tone, which had the effect of hurrying the judge into the house.

Ishmael followed at his leisure.

He entered the drawing room and was walking slowly and thoughtfully
up and down the room, when the sound of voices in the adjoining
library caught his ear and transfixed him to the spot.

"Yes, papa, I am here, and alone--strange as this may seem!"

It was the voice of Claudia that spoke these words.




CHAPTER VIII.

WHY CLAUDIA WAS ALONE.

  Be not amazed at life. 'Tis still
    The mode of God with his elect:
  Their hopes exactly to fulfill,
    In times and ways they least expect.

  Who marry as they choose, and choose,
    Not as they ought, they mock the priest,
  And leaving out obedience, lose
    The finest flavor of the feast.
                   --_Coventry Patmore_.



Ishmael stood transfixed to the spot--for a moment, and then,
breaking the spell with which the sound of Claudia's voice had bound
him, he passed into the hall, took his hat from the rack, and said
to Jim, who was still in attendance there:

"Give my respects to your master, and say that I have an engagement
this evening that obliges me to withdraw. And give him my adieus."

"But, Mr. Ishmael, sir, you will wait for tea. Lady Vincent is here,
sir, just arrived--" began Jim, with the affectionate freedom of a
petted servant.

But Ishmael had left the hall, to keep his promise of spending the
evening with Reuben and Hannah.

Claudia, standing by her father's side in the library, had also
heard the sound of Ishmael's voice, as he spoke to the servant in
the hall; and she suddenly ceased talking and looked as if turned to
stone.

"Why, what is the matter, my dear?" inquired the judge, surprised at
the panic into which she had been cast.

"Papa, he here!" she said.

"Who?"

"Ishmael!"

"Yes. Why?"

"Papa, make some excuse and get rid of him. I must not, cannot, will
not, meet him now!" she exclaimed, in a half breathless voice of
ill-suppressed excitement.

The judge looked at his daughter wistfully, painfully, for a moment,
and then, as something like the truth in regard to Claudia's
feelings broke upon him, he replied very gravely:

"My dear, you need not meet him; and he has saved me the
embarrassment of sending him away. He has gone, if I mistake not."

"If you 'mistake' not. There must be no question of this, sir! See!
and if he has not gone, tell him to go directly!"

"Claudia!"

"Oh, papa, I am nearly crazy! Go!"

The judge stepped out into the hall and made the necessary
inquiries.

And Jim gave Ishmael's message.

With this the judge returned to Claudia.

"He is gone. And now, my dear, I wish to know why it is that you are
here alone? I never in my life heard of such a thing. Where is
Vincent?"

"Papa, I am nearly fainting with fatigue. Will you ring for one of
the women to show Ruth my room? I suppose I have my old one?" she
said, throwing herself back in her chair.

"Why--no, my dear; I fancy I saw Katie and the maids decorating the
suite of rooms on the opposite side of the hall on this floor for
you. I'll see."

"Anywhere, anywhere--'out of the world,'" sighed Claudia, as the
judge sharply rang the bell.

Jim answered it.

"Tell Katie to show Lady Vincent's maid to her ladyship's chamber,
and do you see the luggage taken there."

Jim bowed and turned to go.

"Stop," said the judge. "Claudia, my dear, what refreshment will you
take before going up? A glass of wine? a cup of tea?" he inquired,
looking anxiously upon the harassed countenance and languid figure
of his daughter.

"A cup of coffee, papa, if they have any ready; if not, anything
they can bring quickest."

"A cup of coffee for Lady Vincent in one minute, ready or not
ready!" was the somewhat unreasonable command of the judge.

Jim disappeared to deliver all his master's orders.

And it seemed that the coffee was ready, for he almost immediately
reappeared bearing a tray with the service arranged upon it.

"Is it strong, Jim?" inquired Claudia, as she raised the cup to her
lips.

"Yes, miss--ma'am--my ladyship, I mean!" said poor Jim, who was
excessively bothered by Claudia's new title and the changes that
were rung upon it.

The coffee must have been strong, to judge by its effects upon
Claudia.

"Take it away," she said, after having drunk two cupfuls. "Papa, I
feel better; and while Ruth is unpacking my clothes I may just as
well sit here and tell you why, if indeed I really know why, I am
here alone. We were at Niagara, where we had intended to remain
throughout this month of September. All the world seemed to know
where we were and how long we intended to stay; for you are aware
how absurdly we democratic and republican Americans worship rank and
title; and how certain our reporters would be to chronicle the
movements of Lord and Lady Vincent," said Claudia, with that air of
world-scorn and self-scorn in which she often indulged.

"Well, Lady Vincent cannot consistently find fault with that," said
the judge, with a covert smile.

"Because Lady Vincent shares the folly or has shared it," said
Claudia; "but Lord Vincent did find fault with it; great fault--much
greater fault than was necessary, I thought, and grumbled
incessantly at our custom of registering names at the hotels, and at
'American snobbery and impertinence' generally."

"Bless his impudence! Who sent for him?"

"Papa, we should have quarreled upon this subject in our honeymoon,
if I had had respect enough for him to hold any controversy with
him."

"Claudia!"

"Well, I cannot help it, papa! I must speak out somewhere and to
someone! Where so well as here in the woods; and to whom so well as
to you?"

"You have not yet told me why you are here alone. And I assure you,
Claudia, that the fact gives me uneasiness; it is unusual--
unprecedented!"

"I am telling you, papa. One morning while we were still at Niagara
I was sitting alone in our private parlor, when our mail was brought
in--your letter for me, and three letters for 'my lord.' Of the
latter, the first bore the postmark of Banff, the second that of
Liverpool, and the third that of New York. They were all
superscribed by the same hand; all were evidently from the same
person. After turning them over and over in my hand, and in my mind,
I came to the conclusion that the first dated was written to
announce the writer as starting upon a journey; the second to
announce the embarkment at Liverpool; and the third the arrival at
New York; and that these letters, though posted at different times
and places, had by the irregularities of the ocean mails happened to
arrive at their final destination the same day. Lord Vincent has a
mother and several sisters; yet I felt very sure that the letters
never came from either of them, because in fact I had seen the
handwriting of each in their letters to him. While I was still
wondering over these rather mysterious letters my lord lounged into
the room.

"I handed him the letters, the Banff one being on the top. As soon
as he saw the handwriting he gave vent to various exclamations of
annoyance, such as I had never heard from a gentleman, and scarcely
ever expected to hear from a lord. 'Bosh!' 'Bother!' 'Here's a go!'
'Set fire to her,' etc., being among the most harmless and refined.
But presently he saw the postmarks of Liverpool and New York on the
other letters, and, after tearing them open and devouring their
contents, he gave way to a fury of passion that positively appalled
me. Papa, he swore and cursed like a pirate in a storm!"

"At you?"

"At me? I think not," answered Claudia haughtily; "but at some
person or persons unknown. However, as he forgot himself so far as
to give vent to his passion in my presence, I got up and retired to
my chamber. Presently he came in, gracefully apologized for his
violence,--did not explain the cause of it, however,--but requested
me to give orders for the packing of our trunks and be ready to
leave for New York in one hour."

"Did he give you no reason for his sudden movement?"

"Not until I inquired; then he gave me the general, convenient,
unsatisfactory reason 'business.' In an hour we were off to New
York. But now, papa, comes the singular part of the affair. When we
reached the city, instead of driving to one of the best hotels, as
had always been his custom, he drove to quite an inferior place, and
registered our names--'Captain and Mrs. Jenkins.'"

"What on earth did he do that for?"

"How can I tell? When I made the same inquiry of him he merely
answered that he was tired of being trumpeted to the world by these
'impertinent Yankee reporters!' The next day he left me alone in
that stupid place and went out on his 'business,' whatever that was.
And when he returned in the evening he told me that the 'business'
was happily concluded, and that we might as well go on to Washington
and Tanglewood to pay our promised visit to you. I very readily
acceded to that proposition, for, papa, I was pining to see you."

"My dear child!" said the judge, with emotion.

"So next morning we started for the Philadelphia, Baltimore, and
Washington station. We were in good time, and were just comfortably
seated in one of the best cars when Lord Vincent caught sight of
someone on the platform. And papa, with a muttered curse he started
up and hurried from the car, throwing behind to me the hasty words,
'I'll be back soon.' Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and he did
not come. And while I was still anxiously looking for him the train
started. It was the express, and came all the way through. And that
is why myself and attendants are here alone."

"All this seems very strange, Claudia," said the judge, with a
troubled countenance.

"Yes, very."

"What do you make of it? Of course you, knowing more of the
circumstances, are better able to judge than I am."

"Papa, I do not know."

"Who was it that he caught sight of on the platform?"

"A tall, handsome, imperious-looking woman between thirty and forty
years of age, I should say; a sort of Cleopatra; very dark, very
richly dressed. She was looking at him intently when he caught sight
of her and rushed out as I said."

"And you can make nothing of it?"

"Nothing. I do not know whether he missed the train by design or
accident; or whether he is at this moment on board the cars steaming
to Washington or on board one of the ocean packets steaming to
Liverpool."

"A bad, bad business, Claudia; all this grieves me much. You have
been but two months married, and you return to me alone and your
husband is among the missing; a bad, bad business, Claudia," said
the judge very gravely.

"Not so bad as your words would seem to imply, papa. At least I hope
not. I am inclined to think the detention was accidental; and that
Lord Vincent will arrive by the next boat," said Claudia.

"But how coolly and dispassionately you speak of an uncertainty that
would drive any other woman almost mad. At this moment you do not
know whether you are abandoned or not, and to be candid with you,
you do not seem to care," said the judge austerely.

"Papa, what I paid down my liberty for,--this rank, I mean--is safe!
And so whether he goes or stays I am Lady Vincent; and nothing but
death can prevent my becoming Countess of Hurstmonceux and a peeress
of England," said Claudia defiantly, as she arose and drew her shawl
around her shoulders and looked about herself.

"What is it that you want, my dear?" inquired the judge.

"Nothing. I was taking a view of the old familiar objects. How much
has happened since I saw them last. It seems to me as if many years
had passed since that time. Well, papa, I suppose Ruth has unpacked
and put away my clothes by this time, and so I will leave you for
the present."

And with a weary, listless air Claudia left the room and turned to
go upstairs.

"Not there, not there, my dear, I told you. The rooms on this floor
have been prepared for you," said the judge, who had followed her to
the door.

With a sigh Claudia turned and crossed the hall and entered the
"parlor-chamber," as the large bedroom adjoining the morning room
was called.

Ruth was hanging the last dresses in the wardrobe, and Jim was
shouldering the last empty trunk to take it away.

"I have left out the silver gray glace, for you to wear this
evening, if you please, my lady," said Ruth, indicating the dress
that lay upon the bed.

"That will do, Ruth," answered her mistress, whose thoughts were now
not on dresses, but on that time when Ishmael, for her sake, lay
wounded, bleeding, and almost dying on that very bed.




CHAPTER IX.

HOLIDAY.

      Ha! like a kind hand on my brow
        Comes this fresh breeze.
      Cooling its dull and feverish glow,
      While through my being seems to flow
  She breath of a new life--the healing of the seas.

      Good-by to pain and care! I take
        Mine ease to-day;
      Here where these sunny waters break,
      And ripples this keen breeze. I shake
  All burdens from the heart, all weary thoughts away.



With every nerve, vein, and artery throbbing with excitement Ishmael
hurried away from the house that contained Claudia.

The solitary walk through the thick woods calmed his emotion before
he reached Woodside.

He found a tidy room, a tempting tea-table, and smiling faces
waiting to welcome him.

"That's my boy!" exclaimed Reuben, coming forward and grasping his
hand; "I telled Hannah to keep the tea back a spell, 'cause I knowed
you wouldn't disappoint us."

"As if I ever thought you would, Ishmael! Reuben is always
prophesying things that can't fail to come true, like the rising of
the sun in the east every day, and so forth. And he expects to get
credit for his foresight," said Hannah, taking her seat before the
steaming tea-pot and calling upon the others to sit down.

"Well, that was rayther a surprise, as met you and the judge, when
you comed home from church, wasn't it?" inquired Reuben, as he began
to cut slices from the cold ham.

"You knew of the arrival, then?" questioned Ishmael.

"Why, bless you, yes! Why, laws, you know the carriage passed right
by here, and stopped to water the horses afore going on to
Tanglewood. But look here! There was nobody in it but Mrs. Vincent--
blame my head--I mean Mrs. Lord Vincent--and her city maid."

"Lady Vincent, Reuben. How many times will I have to tell you that?"
said Hannah impatiently.

"All right, Hannah, my dear; I'll remember next time. Ishmael, my
boy, I think you got all your interlects from Hannah. You sartainly
didn't get 'em from me. Well as I was a-saying of, there was no one
inside except Mrs. Lord--I mean Mrs. Lady Vincent and her city
waiting-maid. And on the outside, a-sitting alongside o' the driver,
was a gentleman, as Jim as happened to be here introduced to me as
Mr. Frisbie, Lord Vincent's vallysham, whatever that may be."

"Body-servant, Reuben," said his monitress.

"Servant! Well, if he was a servant, I don't know nothink! Why,
there ain't a gentleman in S'Mary's county as dresses as fine and
puts on as many airs!"

"That is quite likely, Uncle Reuben; but for all that, Frisbie is
Lord Vincent's servant," said Ishmael.

"Well, hows'ever that may be, there he was alongside o' the driver.
But what staggers of me is, that there wa'n't no Lord Vincent
nowhere to be seen! He was 'mong the missin'. And that was the
rummest go as ever was. A new bride a-comin' home to her 'pa without
no bridegroom. And so I jest axed Mr. Frisbie, Esquire, and he
telled me how his lordship missed the trail. What trail! And what
business had he to be offen the trail, when his wife was on it?
That's what I want to know. And, anyways, it's the rummest go as
ever was. Did you hear anythink about it, Ishmael?"

"I chanced to overhear Lady Vincent say to her father--that she was
alone. That was all. I did not even see her ladyship."

"Well, now, that's another rum go. Didn't wait to see her. And you
sich friends? Owtch! Oh! Ah! What's that for, Hannah? You've trod on
my toe and ground it a'most to powder! Ah!"

"If your foot is as soft as your head, no wonder every touch hurts
it!" snapped Mrs. Gray.

"Law, what a temper she have got, Ishmael!" said poor Reuben,
carressing his afflicted foot.

Hannah had effected the diversion she intended, and soon after gave
the signal for rising from the table. And she took good care during
the rest of the evening that the subject of Lord and Lady Vincent
should not be brought upon the tapis.

The next morning being Monday, Ishmael accompanied Reuben in his
rounds over his own little farm and the great Tanglewood estate, to
see the improvements. The "durrum" cow and calf and the "shank-bye"
fowls received due notice. And the first ripe bunches of the
"hamburg" grapes were plucked in the visitor's honor.

In the afternoon they went down to the oyster banks and amused
themselves with watching Sam rake the oysters and load the cart.

They returned to a late tea.

It was while they were sitting out on the vine-shaded porch,
enjoying their usual evening chat under the star-lit sky, that they
heard the sound of approaching wheels.

And a few moments afterwards a carriage drew up at the gate.

Reuben walked up to see who was within it. And Ishmael heard the
voice of Lord Vincent inquiring:

"Is this the best road to Tanglewood?"

"Well, yes, sir; I do s'pose it's the best, if any can be called the
best where none on 'em is good, but every one on 'em as bad as bad
can be!" was the encouraging answer.

"Drive on!" said Lord Vincent. And the carriage rolled out of sight
into the forest road.

After all, then, the viscount had not absconded. He probably had
missed the train. But why had he missed it? That was still the
question.

On Tuesday morning Ishmael took leave of Hannah and Reuben,
promising to stop and spend another day and night with them on his
return to Washington; and mounted on a fine horse, borrowed from
Reuben, with his knapsack behind him, he started for the Beacon.

It was yet early in the forenoon when he arrived at that cool
promontory where the refreshing sea breezes met him.

As he rode up to the house, that you know fronted the water, he saw
Bee, blooming and radiant with youth and beauty, out on the front
lawn with her younger sisters and brothers.

Their restless glances caught sight of him first; and they all
exclaimed at once:

"Here's Ishmael, Bee! here's Ishmael, Bee!" and ran off to meet him.

Bee impulsively started to run too, but checked herself, and stood,
blushing but eager, waiting until Ishmael dismounted and came to
greet her.

She met him with a warm, silent welcome, and then, looking at him
suddenly, said:

"You are so much better; you are quite well. I am so glad, Ishmael!"

"Yes, I am well and happy, dearest Bee--thanks to you and to
Heaven!" said Ishmael, warmly pressing her hands again to his lips,
before turning to embrace the children who were jumping around him.

Then they all went into the house, where Mr. and Mrs. Middleton met
him with an equally cordial welcome.

"And how did you leave the family at Tanglewood? Family, said I? Ah!
there is no family there now; no one left but the old judge. How is
he? And when is Claudia and her lordling expected back?" inquired
Mr. Middleton, when they were all seated near one of the sea-view
windows.

"The judge is well. Lord and Lady Vincent are with him," replied
Ishmael.

And then in answer to their exclamations of surprise he told all he
knew of the unexpected arrival.

A luncheon of fruit, cream, cake, and wine was served, and the
welcome guest was pressed to partake of it.

Ishmael tasted and enjoyed all except the wine--that, faithful to
his vow, he avoided, and was rewarded by a sympathetic look from
Bee.

This was one of the bright days of Ishmael's life. Nowhere did he
feel so much at home or so happy as with these kind friends. They
had an early seaside dinner--fish, crabs, oysters, and water-fowl,
forming a large portion of the bill of fare. Luscious, freshly
gathered fruits composed the dessert. After dinner, as the evening
was clear and bright, the wind fresh and the waters calm, they went
for a sail down to Silver Sands, and returned by starlight.

Ishmael remained all the week at the Beacon. And it was a week of
rare enjoyment to him. He passed nearly all the time with Bee and
her inseparable companions, the children. He helped them with the
lessons in the schoolroom in the morning; he went nutting with them
in the woods, or strolled with them on the beach; and he gave
himself up to the task of amusing them during the hour after the
lamp was lighted that they were permitted to sit up.

All this was due partly to his desire to be with his betrothed, and
partly to his genial love to children.

About the middle of the week, as they were all seated at breakfast
one morning, missives came from Tanglewood to the Beacon--
invitations to dine there the following Wednesday evening. These
invitations included Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, Beatrice, and Ishmael.

"You will go, of course, Worth?" said Mr. Middleton.

"I am due at Brudenell Hall on Tuesday evening, and I must keep my
appointment," said Ishmael.

"Well, I suppose that settles it, for I never knew you to break an
appointment, under any sort of temptation," said Mr. Middleton.

And Bee, who well understood why, even had Ishmael's time been at
his own disposal, he should not have gone to Tanglewood, silently
acquiesced. On this day Ishmael sought an interview with Mr. and
Mrs. Middleton, and besought them, as his present income and future
prospects equally justified him in taking a wife, to fix some day,
not very distant, for his marriage with Bee.

But the father and mother assured him, in the firmest though the
most affectionate manner, that at least one year, if not two, must
elapse before they could consent to part with their daughter.

Ishmael most earnestly deprecated the two years of probation, and
finally compromised for one year, during which he should be
permitted to correspond freely with his betrothed, and visit her at
will.

With this Ishmael rested satisfied.

The remainder of the week passed delightfully to him.

Mrs. Middleton took the children off Bee's hands for a few days, to
leave her to some enjoyment of her lover's visit.

And every morning and afternoon Ishmael and Bee rode or walked
together, through the old forest or along the pebbly beach.
Sometimes they had a sail to some fine point on the shore. Their
evenings were passed in the drawing room, with Mr. and Mrs.
Middleton, and were employed in music, books, and conversation.

And so the pleasant days slipped by and brought the Sabbath, when
all the family went together to the old Shelton church.

Monday was the last day of his visit, and he passed it almost
exclusively in the society of Bee. In the evening Mr. and Mrs.
Middleton left them alone in the drawing room, that they might say
their last kind words to each other unembarrassed by the presence of
others.

And on Tuesday morning Ishmael mounted his horse and started for
Brudenell.




CHAPTER X.

ISHMAEL AT BRUDENELL

  God loves no heart to others iced,
    Nor erring flatteries which bedim
  Our glorious membership in Christ,
    Wherein all loving His, love Him.
                  --_M. F. Tupper_.



It was a long day's ride from the Beacon to Brudenell Hall. The
greater length of the road lay through the forest. It was, in fact,
the very same route traversed, five years before, by Reuben Gray,
when he brought Hannah and Ishmael from the Hill Hut to Woodside.

Ishmael thought of that time, as he ambled on through the leafy
wilderness.

At noon he stopped at a rural inn to feed and rest his horse, and
refresh himself, and an hour afterwards he mounted and resumed his
journey.

It was near sunset when he came in sight of the bay and the village
to which it gave the name of Baymouth. How well he remembered the
last time he had been at that village--when he had run that frantic
race to catch the sleigh which was carrying Claudia away from him,
and had fallen in a swoon at the sight of the steamer that was
bearing her off.

How many changes had taken place since then! Claudia was a
viscountess; he was a successful barrister; their love a troubled
dream of the past.

He rode through Baymouth, looking left and right at the old familiar
shops and signs that had been the wonder and amusement of his
childhood; and at many new shops and signs that the march of
progress had brought down even to Baymouth.

He paused a moment to gaze at Hamlin's book store, that had been the
paradise of his boyhood; and he recalled that noteworthy day in
August, when, while standing before Hamlin's window, staring at the
books, he had first been accosted by Mr. Middleton, afterwards
assaulted by Alfred Burghe, and finally defended by Claudia Merlin.
Claudia was noble then--but, ah, how ignoble now!

He passed on, unrecognized by anyone, first because the years
between the ages of seventeen, when he was last there, and twenty-
one, when he was now there, really had wrought serious changes in
his personal appearance, and secondly because no one was just then
expecting to see Ishmael Worth at all, and least of all in the
person of the tall, distinguished-looking, and well-mounted
stranger, who came riding through their town and taking the road to
Brudenell.

Every foot of that road was rich in memories to Ishmael. Over it he
had ridden, in Mr. Middleton's carriage, on that fateful day of his
first meeting with Claudia.

Over it he had traveled, weary and footsore, through the snow, to
sell his precious book to buy tea for Hannah.

And over it he had again flashed in Mr. Middleton's sleigh, happy in
the possession of his recovered treasure.

Twilight was deepening into dark when he reached that point in the
road where the little footpath diverged from it and led up to the
Hill Hut.

No! he could not pass this by. The path was wide enough to admit the
passage of a horse. He turned up it, and rode on until he came in
sight of the hut.

It was but little changed. It is astonishing how long these little
lonely dilapidated houses hold on if let alone.

He alighted, tied his horse to a tree, and walked up behind the
house, where, under the old elm, he saw the low headstone gleaming
dimly in the starlight.

He knelt and bowed his head over it for a little while. Then he
arose and stood with folded arms, gazing thoughtfully down upon it.
Finally he murmured to himself: "Not here, but risen;" and turned
and left the spot.

He went to the tree where he had tied his horse, remounted, and rode
on his way.

Again he passed down the narrow path leading back to the broad
turnpike road that wound around the brow of the hills to Brudenell
Hall.

Here also every yard of the road was redolent of past associations.

How often, while self-apprenticed to the Professor of Odd Jobs, he
had passed up and down this road, carrying a basket of tools behind
his master.

At length he came to the cross-roads, and to the turnstile, where he
had once seen and been accosted by the beautiful Countess of
Hurstmonceux.

He rode past this spot, and taking the lower arm of the road entered
upon the Brudenell grounds.

A very short ride brought him to the semi-circular avenue leading to
the house.

It was now quite dark; but the front of the house was lighted up,
holding forth, as it were, its hands in welcome.

As he rode up and dismounted a servant took his horse.

And as he walked up the front steps Mr. Brudenell came out of the
front door and, holding out his hand, said cordially:

"You are welcome, my dear Ishmael! I received your letter this
morning, and have been looking for you all afternoon!"

"And I am very glad to get here at last, sir," said Ishmael,
returning the fervent pressure of his father's hands.

"Come up, my boy! Felix, go before us with the light to the room
prepared for Mr. Worth," he said to a mulatto boy who was waiting in
the hall.

Felix immediately led the way upstairs to a large back room, whose
windows overlooked the star-lit, dew-spangled garden, and which
Ishmael at once recognized as the happy schoolroom of his boyhood,
now transformed into his bedroom. He welcomed the old familiar walls
with all his heart; he was glad to be in them.

Mr. Brudenell himself took care that Ishmael had everything he was
likely to want, and then he left him.

When Ishmael had changed his dress he went below to the drawing
room, where he found his father waiting. The late dinner was
immediately served.

Old Jovial, who on account of his age and infirmity had been left to
vegetate on the estate, waited on the table.

He stole wistful glances at the strange young man who was his
master's guest, and who somehow or other reminded him of somebody
whom he felt he ought to remember, but knew he could not.

At length Ishmael, attracted by his covert regards, looked at him in
return, and in spite of his bowed and shrunken form and thinned and
whitened hair, recognized the old friend of his boyhood, and
exclaimed, as he offered his hand:

"Why, Jovial, it is never you!"

"Mr. Ishmael, sir, it's never you!" returned the old man with a grin
of joyful recognition.

They shook hands then and there.

And old Jovial showed his increased regard for the guest by
continually proffering bread, vegetables, meat, poultry, pepper,
salt, in short, everything in succession over and over again,
thereby effectually preventing Ishmael from eating his dinner, by
compelling his constant attention to these offerings; until at
length Mr. Brudenell interfered and brought him to reason.

The next morning Mr. Brudenell proposed to Ishmael to go out for a
day's shooting. And accordingly they took their fowling-pieces,
called the dogs and started for the wooded valley where game most
abounded.

They spent the day pleasantly, bagged many birds and returned home
to a late dinner; and the evening closed as before.

"What would you like to do with yourself this morning, Ishmael?"
inquired Mr. Brudenell, as they were seated at breakfast on
Thursday.

"I wish to go in search of a valued old friend of mine, known in
this neighborhood as the Professor of Odd Jobs," was the reply.

"Oh, Morris. Yes. You will find him, I fancy, in the old place, just
on the edge of the estate," replied Mr. Brudenell.

And when they arose from the table the latter went out and mounted
his horse to ride to the post office, for Herman Brudenell's
establishment was now reduced to so small a number of servants that
he was compelled to be his own postman. To be plain with you, there
were but two servants--old Jovial, who was gardener, coachman, and
waiter; and old Dinah, his wife, who was cook, laundress, and
chambermaid.

Felix, the lad mentioned in the beginning of this chapter, was
scarcely to be called one, upon account of the mental imbecility
that confined his usefulness to such simple duties as running little
errands from room to room about the house.

So Mr. Brudenell rode off to the post office, and Ishmael walked off
to the cottage occupied by Jim Morris.




CHAPTER XI.

THE PROFESSOR OF ODD JOBS.

  An ancient man, hoary gray with eld.
                       --_Dante_.



The little house was situated right at the foot of the hill south of
Brudenell Hall.

Ishmael approached it from behind and walked around to the front. He
opened the little wooden gate of the front yard and saw seated in
the front door, enjoying that early autumn morning, a stalwart old
man, whose well-marked features and high forehead were set in a rim
of hair and beard as white as snow. A most respectable and
venerable-looking form, indeed, though the raiment that clothed it
was old and patched. But Ishmael had to look again before he could
recognize in this reverend personage the Professor of Odd Jobs.

A curiosity to know whether the professor would recognize him
induced Ishmael to approach him as a stranger. As he came into the
yard, however, Morris arose slowly, and, lifting his old felt hat,
bowed courteously to the supposed stranger.

"Your name is Morris, I believe," said Ishmael, by way of opening a
conversation.

But at the first word the professor started and gazed at his
visitor, and exclaiming: "Young Ishmael! Oh, my dear boy, how glad I
am to see you once more before I die!" burst into tears.

Ishmael went straight into his embrace, and the old odd-job man
pressed the young gentleman to his honest, affectionate heart.

"You knew me at once, professor," said Ishmael affectionately.

"Knew you, my boy!" burst out the old man, with enthusiasm. "Why, I
knew you as soon as ever you looked at me and spoke to me. I knew
you by your steady, smiling eyes and by your rich, sweet voice,
young Ishmael. No one has a look and a tone like yours."

"You think so because you like me, professor."

"And how you have grown! And they tell me that you have risen to be
a great lawyer? I knew it was in you to do it!" said the professor,
holding the young man off and gazing at him with all a father's
pride.

"By the blessing of Heaven, I have been successful, dear old
friend," said Ishmael affectionately; "but how has it been with you,
all these years?" he asked.

"How has it been with me? Ah, young Ishmael--I should say 'Mr.
Worth.'"

"Young Ishmael, professor."

"No, no; 'Mr. Worth.' I shall love you none the less by honoring you
more. And with me you are henceforth 'Mr. Worth.'"

"As you please, professor. But I hope it has been well with you all
these years?"

"Come in, Mr. Worth, and sit down and I will tell you."

The professor led the way into the humble dwelling. It was as neat
as ever, with its sanded floor, flag-bottom chairs, and pine
tables,--all of the professor's manufacture,--and its bright tinware
and clean crockery ranged in order on its well scrubbed shelves.

But its look of solitude struck a chill upon Ishmael's spirits.

"Where are they all, professor?" he inquired.

"Gone, Mr. Worth," answered Morris solemnly, as he placed a chair
for his guest.

"Gone! not dead!" exclaimed Ishmael, dropping into the offered seat.

"Not all dead, but all gone," answered the professor sadly, letting
himself sink into a seat near Ishmael.

"Your wife?" inquired the young man.

"There--and there," answered the professor, pointing first down and
then up; "her body is in the earth; her soul in heaven, I hope."

"And your daughters, professor?" inquired Ishmael, in a voice of
sympathy.

"Both married, Mr. Worth. Ann Maria married Lewis Digges, old
Commodore Burghe's boy that he set free before he died, and they
have moved up to Washington to better themselves, and they're doing
right well, as I hear. He drives a hack and she clear starches. They
have three children, two girls and a boy. I have never seen one of
them yet."

"And your other daughter?"

"Mary Ellen? She married Henry Parsons, a free man, by trade a
blacksmith, and they live in St. Inigoes. They have one child, a
boy. I haven't seen them either since they have been married."

"And you are quite alone?" said Ishmael, in a tender voice

"Quite alone, young Ishmael," answered the professor, who forgot on
this occasion to call his sometime pupil Mr. Worth.

"And how is business, professor?"

"Business has fallen off considerably; indeed I may say it has
fallen off altogether."

"I am very sorry to hear it. How is that, professor?"

"Why, you see, Mr. Worth, its falling off is the natural result of
time and progress, of which I cannot complain, and at which I ought
to rejoice. It was all very well for the neighborhood to patronize a
Jack of all trades like me when there was nothing better to be had;
but now you see there are lots of regular mechanics been gradually
coming down and settling here--carpenters and stone-masons and
painters and glaziers and plumbers and tinners and saddlers and
shoemakers, and what not. Law, why you might have seen their signs
as you rode through Baymouth."

"I did."

"Well, you see these mechanics, they have journeymen and apprentices
with their trades at their fingers' ends, and they can do their work
not only easier and quicker and better than I can, but even cheaper.
So I cannot complain that they have taken the custom of the
neighborhood from me."

"Professor, I really do admire the justice and forbearance of your
nature."

"Well, young Ishmael, there was another thing. I was getting too old
to tramp miles and miles through the country with a heavy pack on my
back, as I used to do."

"Well, then, I hope you have saved a little money, at least, old
friend, to make you comfortable in your old age," said Ishmael
feelingly.

The poor, old odd-job man looked up with a humorous twinkle in his
eye, as he replied:

"Why, law, young Ishmael, the idea of my saving money! When had I
ever a chance to do it in the best o' days? Why, Ishmael, they say
how ministers of the gospel and teachers of youth are the worst paid
men in the community; but I think, judging by my own case, that
professors are quite as poorly remunerated. It used to take
everything I could rake and scrape to keep my family together; and
so, young Ishmael, I haven't saved a dollar."

"Is that so?" asked Ishmael, in a voice of pain.

"True as gospel, young Ishmael--Mr. Worth."

"How then do you manage to live, Morris? I ask this from the kindest
of feelings."

"Don't I know it, young--Mr. Worth. Well, sir, I do an odd job once
in a while yet, for the colored people, and that keeps me from
starving," said the professor, with a smile.

Ishmael fell into a deep thought for a while, and then lifting his
head, said:

"Well, professor, you have been in your day and generation as useful
a man to your fellow-creatures as any other in this world. You have
contributed as much to the comfort and well-being of the community
in which you live as any other member of it! And you should not and
you shall not be left in your old age, either to suffer from want or
to live on charity--"

"I may suffer for want, Mr. Worth, but I never will consent to live
on charity!" said the odd-job man with dignity.

"That I am sure you never will, professor; though mind! I do not
believe it to be any degradation to live by charity when one cannot
live in any other way. For if all men are brethren should not the
able brother help the disabled brother, and that without humbling
him?"

"Yes; but I am not disabled, young--Mr. Worth. I am only disused."

"That is very true. And therefore I spoke as I did when I said just
now that you should not suffer from want nor live by charity. Listen
to me, professor. I have a proposition to make to you. Your
daughters are all married and your work is done; you are alone and
idle here. But you are not a mere animal to be tied down to one spot
of earth by local attachment. You are a very intelligent man with a
progressive mind. You will never stop improving, professor. You have
improved very much in the last few years. I notice it in your
conversation--"

"I am glad you think so, young--Mr. Worth! but I'm getting aged."

"What of that? You are 'traveling towards the light,' and after
improving all your life here you will go on progressing through all
eternity."

"Well, sir, that thought ought to be a great comfort to an old man."

"Yes. Now what I want to propose to you is this--I think you love
me, professor?"

"Love you, young--Mr. Worth! Why the Lord in heaven bless your dear
heart, I love you better than I do anything on the face of the
earth, and that's a fact," said the professor, with his face all in
a glow of feeling.

And all who knew him might have known that he spoke truth; for
though he was not in the least degree deficient in affection for his
daughters, yet his love of Ishmael amounted almost to idolatry.

"Dear old friend, I will prove to you some day how high a value I
set upon your love. I think, professor, that loving me, as you do,
you could live happily with me?"

"What did you say, young--Mr. Worth? I did not quite understand."

"I will be plain, professor. You have lived out your present life
here; it is gone. Now, instead of vegetating on here any longer,
come into another sphere, a more enlarged and active sphere, where
your thoughts as well as your hands will find employment and your
mind as well as your body have food."

"How is that to be done, young--Mr. Worth?"

"Come with me to Washington. I have a suite of three very pleasant
rooms in the house where I board. Now suppose you come and live with
me and take care of my rooms? Your services would be worth a good,
liberal salary, from which you would be enabled to live very
comfortably and save money."

"What, young Ishmael! Me! I go to Washington and live with you all
the time, day and night, under one roof! and live where I can get
books and newspapers and hear lectures and debates and see pictures
and models, and, in short, come at everything I have been longing to
reach all my life?"

"Yes, professor, that is what I propose to you."

"There! I used to say that you'd live to be a blessing to my
declining years, young--Mr. Worth (I declare I'll not forget myself
again), Mr. Worth! there! Do you really mean it, sir?"

"Really and truly."

"There, then, I am not going to be a hypocrite and pretend to
higgle-haggle about it. I'll go, sir; and be proud to do it; it will
be taking a new lease of life for me to go. Do you know, I never was
in a large city in all my life, though I have always longed to go?
Well, sir, I'll go with you. And I will serve you faithfully, sir;
for mine will be a service for love more than for money. And I will
never forget the proprieties so far as to call you anything else but
'Mr. Worth,' or 'sir,' in the presence of others, sir, though my
heart does betray me into calling you young Ishmael sometimes here."

"I shall leave here on Saturday morning. Can you be ready to go with
me as soon as that?"

"Of course I can, Mr. Worth. There's nothing for me to do in the way
of preparation but to pack my knapsack and lock my door," answered
this "Rough and Ready."

"Very well, then, professor, I like your promptitude. Meet me at
Brudenell Hall on Saturday morning at seven o'clock, and in the
meantime I will find a conveyance for you."

"All right; thank you, sir; I will be ready."

And Ishmael shook hands with the professor and departed, leaving him
hopeful and happy.

At the dinner-table that day, being questioned by his father,
Ishmael told him of the retainer he had engaged.

"Ah, my dear boy, it is just like you to burden yourself with the
presence and support of that poor old man, and persuade him--and
yourself, too, perhaps--that you are securing the services of an
invaluable assistant. And all with no other motive than his
welfare," said Mr. Brudenell.

"Indeed, sir, I think it will add to my happiness to have Morris
with me. I like and esteem the old man, and I believe that he really
will be of much use to me," replied the son.

"Well, I hope so, Ishmael; I hope so."

There was through all his talk a preoccupied air about Mr. Brudenell
that troubled his son, who at last said:

"I hope, sir, that you have received no unpleasant news by this
mail?"

"Oh, no; no, Ishmael! but I have had on my mind for several days
something of which I wish to speak to you--"

"Yes, sir?"

"Ishmael, since I have been down here I have followed your counsel.
I have gone about among my tenants and dependents, and--without
making inquiries--I have led them to speak of the long period of my
absence from my little kingdom, and of the manner in which Lady
Hurstmonceux administered its affairs. And, Ishmael, I have heard
but one account of her. With one voice the community here accord her
the highest praise."

"I told you so, sir."

"As a wife, though an abandoned one, as mistress of the house, and
as lady of the manor, she seems to have performed all her duties in
the most unexceptionable manner."

"Everyone knows that, sir."

"But still remains the charge not yet refuted."

"Because you have given her no chance to refute it, sir. Be just!
Put her on her defense, and my word for it, she will exonerate
herself," said Ishmael earnestly.

Mr. Brudenell shook his head.

"There are some things, Ishmael, that on the very face of them admit
of no defense," said Mr. Brudenell, with an emphasis that put an end
to the conversation.

Punctually at seven o'clock Saturday the professor, accoutered for a
journey, with knapsack on his back, presented himself at the
servant's door at Brudenell Hall.

His arrival being announced, Ishmael came out to meet him.

"Well, here I am, Mr. Worth; though how I am to travel I don't know.
I have walked, by faith, so far!" he said.

"All right, professor. Mr. Brudenell will lend me an extra horse."

And father and son took leave of each other with earnest wishes for
their mutual good.




CHAPTER XII.

THE JOURNEY.

  Ever charming, ever new,
  When will the landscape tire the view?
  The fountains fall, the rivers flow,
  The woody valleys, warm and low,
  The windy summit, wild and high,
  Roughly rushing on the sky!
  The pleasant seat, the chapel tower,
  The naked rock, the shady bower,
  The town and village, dome and farm,
  Each gave each a double charm,
  As pearls upon a woman's arm.
                      --_Dyer._



Ishmael and his aged retainer rode on, down the elm-shaded avenue
and out upon the turnpike road. There seemed to be a special fitness
in the relations between these two. Ishmael, you are aware, was a
very handsome, stately, and gracious young man. And the professor
was the tallest, gravest, and most respectable of servants. Ah,
their relative positions were changed since twelve years before,
when they used to travel that same road on foot, as "boss" and
"boy."

Many men in Ishmael's position would have shrunk from all that would
have reminded them of the poverty from which they had sprung; and
would have avoided as much as possible all persons who were familiar
with their early struggles.

But Ishmael did not so. While pressing forward to the duties and
distinctions of the future, with burning aspiration and untiring
energy, he held the places and persons of the past in most
affectionate remembrance.

To a vain or haughty man in Ishmael's situation there could scarcely
have occurred a more humiliating circumstance than the constant
presence of the poor, old odd-jobber, whose "boy" he had once been.

But Ishmael was neither the one nor the other; he was intellectual
and affectionate. His breadth of mind took in his past memories, his
present position, and his future prospects, and saw them all in
perfect harmony. And his depth of heart found room for the humblest
friends of his wretched infancy, as well as for the higher loves of
his manhood's prime.

Ishmael was at ease with the old odd-job man, and he would have been
at ease with his imperial majesty, had circumstances brought him
into the immediate circle of the Czar; because from the depths of
his soul he was intensely conscious of the innate majesty of man.

Ishmael had no more need of a servant than a coach has of a fifth
wheel. He took the professor into his service for no other purpose
than to take care of the poor old man and make him happy, never
foreseeing how really useful and important this gray-haired retainer
would eventually become to him. He was planning only the professor's
happiness, not his own convenience. But he found both.

As they rode along that pleasant September morning he was pleasing
himself with thinking how that intelligent old man, starved all his
life for mental food, would delight himself amid the intellectual
wealth of his new life.

They were approaching the turn-stile at the cross-roads, memorable
for the weary watchings of Lady Hurstmonceux.

As they reached the spot and took the road leading to Baymouth
Ishmael looked back to the professor, who, as he felt in duty bound
to do, rode in the rear of his master, and, as was natural, looked a
little serious.

"Do you remember, professor, how often you and I have traveled afoot
up and down this road in the exercise of our useful calling of odd-
jobbing? Your great shoulders bowed under an enormous load of pots,
pans, kettles, umbrellas, and everything that required your surgical
skill; and my little back bent beneath the basket of tools?"
inquired Ishmael, by way of diverting him.

"Ah, do I not, sir! But why recall those days? You have left them
far behind, sir," said the professor, in grave consideration of his
master's dignity.

"Because I like to recall them, professor. It quickens my gratitude
to the Lord for all his marvelous mercies, and it deepens my love
for my friends for their goodness to me then," said Ishmael
fervently.

"The Lord knows I don't know who was good to you then! Of course,
now, sir, there are multitudes of people who would be proud to be
numbered among your friends. But then, of all the abandoned children
that ever I saw, you were about the most friendless," said the
professor, with much feeling.

"You, for one, were good to me, professor; and I do not forget it."

"Ah, the Lord knows it was but little I could do."

"What you did do was vital to me, professor. My life was but a
little flame, in danger of dying out. You fed it with little chips,
and kept it alive."

"And it burns great hickory logs now, and warms the world," said the
professor, looking proudly and fondly upon the fine young man before
him.

"It shall at least warm and shelter your age, professor. And
whatever of prosperity the Lord accords me, you shall share."

As he said these words he turned an affectionate look on his
retainer, and saw the tears rolling down the old man's cheeks.

"It was but a few, poor crumbs I cast upon the waters, that all this
bread should come back to me after many days," he muttered in a
broken voice.

"We were really very happy, professor, when we used to trudge the
road together, plying our profession; but we are going to be much
happier now, because our lives will be enlarged."

The professor smiled assent and they rode on.

They passed through Baymouth, where the professor directed his
master's attention to the new signs of the mechanics who had taken
his custom from him,

"But it is a true saying, sir, that there never was one door closed
but what there was another opened. Many doors were closed against me
at once; but just see what a broad, beautiful door you have opened
to me, letting me into a glorious new life!"

"Life is what we make of it, professor. To you, who will appreciate
and enjoy every good thing in it, no doubt your new life will be
very happy," replied Ishmael.

And so conversing they passed through the town and entered the deep
forest that lay along the shores of the river between Baymouth and
Shelton.

They rode all the morning through the pleasant woods and stopped an
hour at noon to rest and refresh themselves and their horses; and
then resumed their journey and rode all the afternoon and arrived at
Woodside just as the sun was setting.

As before, Reuben, Hannah, Sam, Sally, the children, and the dog,
all rushed out to welcome Ishmael.

Much astonished was Hannah to see her old friend, the professor, and
much delighted to hear that he was going up to Washington to fill
the place of major-domo to Ishmael. For Hannah shared the old
woman's superstition, that the young man is never able to take care
of himself; and notwithstanding all that had come and gone--
notwithstanding that Ishmael had taken care of himself and her too,
from the time he was eight years old, for years more, still she
thought that he would be all the safer for having "an old head to
look after him."

There was plenty of news to tell, too.

As soon as the bounteous supper that Reuben and Hannah always
provided for favored guests was over, and they were all gathered
around the bright little wood fire that the capricious autumn
weather rendered desirable, the budget was opened.

Lord and Lady Vincent were to have an evening reception, at
Tanglewood.

And on the first of October they were to sail for Europe.

Lady Vincent was going to take three of the servants with her--old
Aunt Katie, Jim, and Sally.

Jim was to go as lady's footman; Sally as lady's maid; and old Aunt
Katie in no particular capacity, but because she refused to be
separated from the two beings she loved the most of all in the
world.

She had nursed Miss Claudia, and she was bound to nurse Miss
Claudia's children, she said.

Lady Vincent had decided to take her, and was rather glad to do it.

Lord Vincent, it was supposed, did not like the arrangement, and
stigmatized the black servants as "gorillas," but Lady Vincent, it
was confidently asserted, never deigned to consult his lordship, or
pay the slightest attention to his prejudices. And so matters stood
for the present.

All this was communicated to Ishmael by Reuben and Hannah. And in
the midst of their talk, in walked one of the subjects of their
conversation--Aunt Katie.

She was immediately welcomed and provided with a seat in the
chimney-corner. She was inflated with the subject of her expected
voyage and glowing with the importance of her anticipated office.
She expatiated on the preparations in progress.

"But don't you feel sorry to leave your native home, Aunt Katie?"
inquired Hannah.

"Who, me? No, 'deed! I takes my native home along with me when I
takes Miss Claudia and Jim and Sally! For what says the catechism?--
'tis home where'er de heart is!' And my heart is 'long o' de
chillun. 'Sides which I don't want to be allus stuck down in one
place like an old tree as can't be moved without killing of it. I'm
a living soul, I am, and I wants to go and see somethin' of this
here world afore I goes hence and bees no more," said Katie briskly.

Evidently Katie was a progressive spirit, and would not have
hesitated to emigrate to Liberia or any other new colony where she
could better herself or her children, and begin life afresh at
fifty.

At last Katie got up to go, and bade them all a patronizing
farewell.

Sally, and Jim, who as usual was spending his evening with her,
arose to accompany Katie.

And Ishmael took his hat and walked out after them.

Very much embarrassed they were at this unusual honor, which they
could in no wise understand, until at length when they had gone some
little way into the woods Ishmael said:

"I have something to say to you three."

"Yes, sir," said Katie, speaking for the rest.

"Katie, you are acquainted with that psychological mystery called
presentiment, for I have heard you speak of it," said Ishmael,
smiling half in doubt, half in derision of his present feelings.

"Ye-es, sir," answered Katie hesitatingly, "I believe in
persentiments; though what you mean by sigh-what's-its-name, I don't
know."

"Never mind, Katie, you believe in presentiments?"

"Indeed do I! and got reason to, too! Why, law! the month before
Mrs. Merlin, as was Miss Claudia's mother, died. I sperienced the
most 'stonishing--"

"Yes, I know. You told me all about that before, Katie."

"Why, so I did, to be sure, sir, when you were lying wounded at the
house!"

"Yes. Well, Katie, some such feeling as that of which you speak,
vague, but very strong, impels me to say what I am about to say to
you all."

"Yes, sir. Listen, chillun!" said Katie, in a voice of such awful
solemnity that Ishmael again smiled at what he was inclined to
characterize as the absurdity of believing in presentiments.

"You three are going to Europe in attendance upon Lady Vincent."

"Yes, sir. Listen, chillun!" again said Katie, keeping her eyes
fixed upon Ishmael and nudging her companions right and left with
her elbows.

"You will be all of her friends, all of her native country, all of
her past life that she will take with her."

"Yes, sir. Listen, chillun!" and another elbow dig, right and left.

"She is going among strangers, foreigners, possibly rivals and
enemies."

"Yes, sir. Listen, chillun--now it's a-comin'!"

"She may need all your devotion. Be vigilant, therefore. Watch over
her, care for her, think for her, pray for her; let her honor and
happiness be the one charge and object of your lives."

"Yes, sir. Listen, chillun! you hears, don't you?"

A sharp reminder right and left brought out the responses "yes" and
"yes" from Jim and Sally.

"And when you are far away you will remember all this that I have
said to you; for, as I told you before, I feel, deep in my spirit,
that your lady will need your utmost devotion," said Ishmael
earnestly.

"You may count on me, for one, Mr. Ishmael, sir; not only to devote
myself to my lady's sarvice, but to keep the ole 'oman and Sally in
mind to go and do likewise," said Jim, with an air of earnest good
faith that could not be doubted.

"That is right. I will take leave of you now. Good-by! God bless
you!"

And Ishmael shook hands with them all around, and left them and
walked back to the cottage.

The next day, being the Sabbath, he went with Hannah and Reuben and
the professor to church. He had almost shrunk from this duty, in his
dread of meeting Claudia there; but she was not present. Judge
Merlin's pew was empty when they entered, and remained empty during
the whole of the morning service.

When the benediction had been pronounced, and the congregation were
going out, Ishmael was about to leave his pew when he saw that the
minister had come down from the pulpit and was advancing straight
towards him to speak to him. He therefore stopped and waited for Mr.
Wynne's approach.

There was a shaking of hands and mutual inquiries as to each other's
health, and then Mr. Wynne invited Ishmael to accompany him home and
dine with him.

Ishmael thanked him and declined the invitation, saying that he was
with friends.

Mr. Wynne then smilingly shook hands with Hannah and Reuben and the
professor, claiming them all as old friends and parishioners, and
extending the invitation to them.

But Hannah pleaded the children left at home, and, with many thanks,
declined the honor.

And the friends shook hands and separated.

Very early on Monday morning Ishmael and his gray-haired retainer
prepared for their departure for Washington.

Ishmael left two commissions for Reuben. The first was to make his
apologies and adieus to Judge Merlin. And the second was to send
back the horse, borrowed for the use of the professor, to Mr.
Brudenell at Brudenell Hall. Both of which Reuben promised to
execute.

After an early breakfast Ishmael and his venerable dependent took
leave of Hannah, the children and the dog, and seated themselves in
the light wagon that had been geared up for their accommodation, and
were driven by Reuben to Shelton, where they arrived in time to
catch the "Errand Boy" on its up trip. Reuben took leave of them
only half a minute before the boat started.

They had a pleasant run up the river, and reached the Washington
wharf early on Wednesday morning, where Ishmael took a carriage to
convey himself, servant, and his luggage to his lodgings.

As they drove through the streets the professor, seated on the front
seat, bobbed about from right to left, looking out at the windows
and gazing at the houses, the shops, and the crowds of people.
Nothing could exceed the surprise and delight of the intellectual
but childlike old man, who now for the first time in his life looked
upon a large city. His enthusiasm at the sight of the Capitol was
delicious.

"You shall go all through it some day, as soon as we get settled,"
said Ishmael.

"There is only one thing that I am doubtful about," said the
professor.

"And what is that?"

"That I have not years enough left to live to see all the wonders of
the world."

"None of us--not the youngest of us have, professor. But you will
live to see a great many. And by the time that you have seen
everything that is to be found in Washington, I shall be ready to go
to Europe; for I expect to see Europe some time or other, professor,
and you shall see it with me."

"Oh!" ejaculated the odd-job man, who seemed to think that the
millennium was not far off.

And at that moment the carriage drew up before Ishmael's lodgings.
And the driver and the professor carried the luggage into the front
hall. And when the carriage was paid and dismissed Ishmael conducted
the professor to the inner office where the two clerks that were in
charge of it arose to welcome their principal.

When he had shaken hands with them, he led his retainer into the
bedroom, and showed him a small vacant chamber adjoining that, and
told him that the latter should be his--the professor's own
sanctuary. Then he showed the old man the pleasant garden, all
blooming now with late roses, chrysanthemums, dahlias, and other
gorgeous autumn flowers, and told him that there he might walk or
sit, and smoke his pipe in pleasant weather. And finally he brought
the professor back to the front office, where he found his
hostesses, Miss Jenny and Miss Nelly Downey, waiting to welcome him.
Nice, delicate, refined-looking old maiden ladies they were--tall,
thin, and fair complexioned, with fine, gray hair, and cobweb lace
caps and pale gray dresses, and having pleasant smiles and soft
voices.

After they had shaken hands with their lodger they turned looks of
inquiry upon the tall, gray-haired old man that stood behind him.

"This is a very old friend of mine; I have engaged him to take care
of my rooms, his name is Morris, but upon account of his skill in
many arts he has received from the public the title of professor,"
said Ishmael, turning an affectionate look upon the old odd-job man.

"How do you do, Professor Morris? We are very glad to see you, I am
sure; and we hope you will find yourself comfortable, and also that
you will be a comfort to Mr. Worth, who is a very estimable young
gentleman indeed," said Miss Jenny, speaking for herself and sister.

"I cannot fail to be both comfortable and happy under this honored
roof, my ladies!" said the professor, in a most reverential tone,
laying his hand upon his heart and making a profound bow that would
have done credit to the most accomplished courtier of the grave and
stately old school.

"A nice, gentlemanly old person," said Miss Jenny, nodding her head
to her sister. And Miss Nelly said "Yes," and nodded her head also.

"If you can fit up the little chamber adjoining my bedroom for the
professor, I will arrange with you for his board," said Ishmael,
aside to Miss Jenny.

"Oh, certainly; it shall be done immediately," replied the old lady.
And she left the room, followed by her sister, to give orders to
that effect.

And before night the professor was comfortably installed in his
neatly furnished and well-warmed little room, and Ishmael's
apartments were restored to order, and he himself in full career
going over the office business of the last two weeks with his
clerks.

He found a plenty of work cut out for him to do, and he resolved to
be very busy to make up for his idleness during his holiday.

Ishmael did not really wish to tax his old servant with any labor at
all. He wished his office to be as much of a sinecure as possible.
And he continually urged the professor to go abroad and see the city
sights, or to walk in the garden and enjoy his pipe, or rest himself
in his own room, or visit his daughter, the hackman's wife.

The professor obediently did all this for a time; but as the days
passed Ishmael saw that the old man's greatest happiness consisted
in staying with and serving his master; and so he at length
permitted the professor to relieve the chamber-maid of her duties in
his rooms, and take quiet possession and complete charge of them.

And never were rooms kept in more perfect order. And, best of all,
love taught the professor the mystic art of dusting without
deranging papers and dementing their owner.

Ishmael's present position was certainly a very pleasant one. He not
only found a real home in his boarding-house, and a faithful friend
in his servant, but a pair of aunties in his landladies. Every good
heart brought in contact with Ishmael Worth was sure to love him.
And these old ladies were no exception to the rule. They had no
relatives to bestow their affections upon, and so, seeing every day
more of their young lodger's worth, they grew to love him with
maternal ardor. It is not too much to say that they doted on him.
And in private they nodded their heads at each other and talked of
its being time to make their wills, and spoke of young Mr. Worth as
their heir and executor.

Ishmael for his part treated the old ladies with all the reverential
tenderness that their age and womanhood had a right to expect from
his youth and manhood. He never dreamed that the "sweet, small
courtesies," which it was his happiness to bestow alike on rich and
poor, had won for him such signal favor in the eyes of the old
ladies. He knew and was happy to know that they loved him. That was
all. He never dreamed of being their heir; he never even imagined
that they had any property to bequeath. He devoted himself with
conscientious zeal to his profession, and went on, as he deserved to
go on, from success to success.




CHAPTER XIII.

LADY VINCENT'S RECEPTION.

  The folds of her wine-dark violet dress
    Glow over the sofa fall on fall.
  As she sits in the light of her loveliness,
    With a smile for each and for all.

  Could we find out her heart through that velvet and lace,
    Can it beat without rumpling her sumptuous dress?
  She will show us her shoulder, her bosom, her face,
    But what her heart's like, we must guess.
                                    --_O. M._



The evening of Lady Vincent's reception arrived. At an unfashionably
early hour Judge Merlin's country house was filled.

All the county families of any importance were represented there.
The rustic guests, drawn, no doubt, not more by their regard for
Judge Merlin and his daughter than by their curiosity to behold a
titled foreigner.

Mr. and Mrs. Middleton and Beatrice came very early, encumbered with
several bandboxes; for their long ride made it necessary for them to
defer their evening toilet until after their arrival.

They were received and conducted to their rooms by old Aunt Katie.
"Lady Vincent," she said, "has not yet left her dressing room."

When their toilets were made, Mr. and Mrs. Middleton came to Bee's
door to take her down to the drawing room.

Very beautiful indeed looked Bee, in her floating, cloud-like dress
of snow-white tulle, with white moss-roses resting on her rounded
bosom and wreathing her golden ringlets; and all her beauty
irradiated with the light of a happy love.

Her father smiled proudly and her mother fondly on her as she came
out and joined them.

The found the drawing rooms already well filled with guests.

Lord and Lady Vincent stood near the door to receive all comers. To
them the Middletons first went.

Very handsome and majestic looked Claudia in her rich robe of royal
purple velvet, with her raven black hair crowned with a diadem of
diamonds, and diamonds blazing on her neck and arms and at her
waist. Strangers looked upon her loveliness with unqualified
delight. Her "beauty made them glad." But friends who saw the
glittering surface and the alloy beneath it, admired and sighed. Her
dark eyes were beaming with light; her oval cheeks were burning with
crimson fire. Mrs. Middleton thought this was fever; but Bee knew it
was French rouge.

Claudia received her friends with bright smiles and gay words. She
complimented them on their good looks and rallied them on their
gravity. And then she let them lightly pass away to make room for
new arrivals, who were approaching to pay their respects.

They passed through the crowd until they found Judge Merlin, to
whose care Mr. Middleton consigned Bee, while he himself, with his
wife on his arm, made a tour of all the rooms, including the supper
room.

The party, they saw, was going to be a successful one,
notwithstanding the fact that the three great metropolitan ministers
of fashion had nothing whatever to do with it.

Sam and Jim, with perfect liberty to do their worst in the matters
of garden flowers and wax lights, had decorated and illuminated the
rooms with the rich profusion for which the negro servants are
notorious. The guests might have been in fairy groves and bowers,
instead of drawing rooms, for any glimpse of walls or ceilings they
could get through green boughs and blooming flowers.

In the supper room old Aunt Katie with her attendant nymphs had laid
a feast that might vie in "toothsomeness" if not in elegance with
the best ever elaborated by the celebrated caterer.

And in the dancing room the local band of negro musicians drew from
their big fiddle, little fiddle, banjo, and bones notes as ear-
piercing and limb-lifting, if not as scientific and artistic, as
anything ever executed by Dureezie's renowned troupe.

The Englishman, secretly cynical, sneered at all this; but openly
courteous, made himself agreeable to all the prettiest of the
country belles, who ever after had the proud boast of having
quadrilled or waltzed with Lord Vincent.

The party did not break up until morning. The reason of this was
obvious--the company could not venture to return home in their
carriages over those dangerous country roads until daylight.

It was, in fact, sunrise before the last guests departed and the
weary family were at liberty to go to bed and sleep. They had turned
the night into day, and now it was absolutely necessary to turn the
day into night.

They did not any of them awake until three or four o'clock in the
afternoon, when they took coffee in their chambers. And they did not
reassemble until the late dinner hour at six o'clock, by which time
the servants had removed the litter of the party and restored the
rooms to neatness, order, and comfort.

The Middletons had not departed with the other guests. They joined
the family at dinner. And after dinner, at the pressing invitation
of Judge Merlin, they agreed to remain at Tanglewood for the few
days that would intervene before the departure of Lord and Lady
Vincent for Europe. Only Bee, the next morning, drove over to the
Beacon to give the servants there strict charges in regard to the
girls and boys, and to bring little Lu back with her to Tanglewood.

The next week was passed in making the final preparations for the
voyage.

And when all was ready on a bright Monday morning, the first of
October, Lord and Lady Vincent, with their servants and baggage,
departed from Tanglewood.

Judge Merlin, leaving his house to be shut up by the Middletons,
accompanied them to see them off in the steamer.

It was quite an imposing procession that left Tanglewood that
morning. There were two carriages and a van. In the first carriage
rode Lord and Lady Vincent and Judge Merlin. In the second my lord's
valet and my lady's three servants. And in the van was piled an
inconceivable amount of luggage.

This procession made a sensation, I assure you, as it lumbered along
the rough country roads. Every little isolated cabin along the way
turned out its ragged rout of girls and boys who threw up their arms
with a prolonged "Hooray!" as it passed--to the great disgust of the
Englishman and the transient amusement of the judge. As for Claudia,
she sat back with her eyes closed and cared for nothing.

The negroes came in for their share of notice.

"Hooray, Aunt Katie, is that you a-ridin' in a coach as bold as
brass?" some wayside laborer would shout.

"As bold as brass yourself!" would be the irate retort of the old
woman, nodding her head that was adorned with a red and yellow
bonnet, from the window.

"Hillo, Jim! that's never you, going to forring parts as large as
life?" would sing out another.

"Yes! Good-by! God bless you all as is left behind!" would be Jim's
compassionate reply.

"Lord bless my soul and body, what a barbarous country!" would be
Lord Vincent's muttered comment. And the judge would smile and
Claudia slumber, or seem to do so.

And this happened over and over again all along the turnpike road,
until they got to Shelton, where they embarked on the steamer
"Arrow" for Baltimore, where they arrived the next day at noon.

They made no stay in the Monumental City. Old Katie's dilated eyes
had not time to relieve themselves by one wink over the wonders of
the new world into which she was introduced, before, to her
"surprise and 'stonishment," as she afterwards expressed it, she
found herself "on board the cars, being whisked off somewhere else.
And if you would believe her racket, she had to hold the h'ar on her
head to keep it from being streamed off in the flight. And she was
no sooner set down comfortable in the cars at Baltimore than she had
to get up and get outen them at New York. And you better had believe
it, chillun, that's all."

Old Aunt Katie must have slept all the way through that night's
journey; for it is certain that the cars in which she traveled left
Baltimore at eight o'clock in the evening and arrived at New York at
six o'clock the next morning.

After their dusty, smoky, cindery ride of ten hours our party had
barely time to find their hotel, cleanse and refresh themselves with
warm baths and changes of raiment and get their breakfasts
comfortably, before the hour of embarkation arrived. For they were
required to be on board their steamer at ten o'clock, as she was
announced to sail at twelve, meridian.

At ten, therefore, the carriages that had been ordered for the
purpose of conveying them to the pier were announced.

Lower and lower sank the heart of the widowed father as the moment
approached that was to separate him from his only child. There were
times when he so dreaded that moment as to wish for death instead.
There were times when he felt that the wrench which should finally
tear his daughter from him must certainly prove his death-blow. Yet,
for her sake, he bore himself with composure and dignity. He would
not let her see the anguish that was oppressing his heart.

He entered the carriage with her and drove to the pier. He drew her
arm within his own, keeping her hand pressed against his aching
heart, and so he led her up the gang-plank on board the steamer,
Lord Vincent and their retinue following. He would not trust himself
to utter any serious words; but he led her to find her stateroom,
that he might see for himself she would be comfortable on her
voyage, and that he might carry away with him a picture of her and
her surroundings in his memory. And then he brought her up on deck
and found a pleasant seat for her, and sat down beside her, keeping
her arm within his and her hand pressed as a balm to his covered
bleeding heart.

There he sat, speaking but little, while active preparations were
made for sailing. It looked to him like preparations for an
execution.

Lord Vincent walked up and down the deck, occasionally stopping to
exchange a word with Claudia, or the judge.

At length the signal-bell rang out, every peal striking like a
death-toll on the heart of the old man.

And the order was shouted forth:

"All hands ashore!"

The moment of life and death had come. He started up; he strained
his daughter to his breast. He gasped:

"God bless you, my dear! Write as soon as you land!"

He wrung the hand of Lord Vincent. "Be good to--" He choked, and
hurried from the steamer.

He stood alone on the pier gazing at the receding ship, and at his
daughter, who was leaning over the bulwarks, waving her
handkerchief. Swiftly, swiftly, receded the ship from his strained
sight. First his daughter's face faded from his aching vision; but
still he could see the outline of her form. A minute or two and even
that grew indistinct and was lost among the rigging. And while he
was still straining his eyes to the cracking, in the effort to see
her, the signal gun from the steamer was fired. The farewell gun!
The ball seemed to strike his own heart. All his strength forsook
him; his well-strung nerves suddenly relaxed; his limbs gave way
beneath him, and he must have fallen but for the strong arms that
suddenly clasped him and the warm bosom that firmly supported him.

Turning up his languid, fainting eyes, he saw--

"Ishmael!"

Yes, it was Ishmael, who with a son's devotion was standing there
and sustaining Claudia's forsaken father in the hour of his utter
weakness and utmost need.

At first the judge looked at him in surprise and incredulity, which
soon, however, gave way before recognition and affection, as he
rested on that true breast and met those beautiful eyes bent on him
in deepest sympathy.

"Oh, Ishmael, Ishmael, is it you? is it indeed you? You here at
need? Oh, my son, my son, would to the Lord that you were indeed my
son! It is a grief and folly that you are not!" he exclaimed with
emotion.

What could Ishmael reply to these words? Nothing. He could only
tenderly support the old man and turn to a gray-haired servant that
waited behind him and say:

"Professor, go call a carriage here quickly!"

And Jim Morris started on his errand, with all the crippled alacrity
of age and zeal.

"Oh, Ishmael, she has gone! she has gone! My daughter has left me!"
he groaned, grasping the hand of his young supporter.

"I know it, sir, I know it. But this hour of parting is the
bitterest of all. The heart feels the wrench of separation keenly
now."

"Oh, yes, yes!"

"But every coming hour will bring relief. You will cease to look
back to the bitter parting, and you will look forward to the happy
meeting. And that meeting may be as soon as you please, sir, you
know. There is nothing on earth to prevent or even delay your visit
to Lady Vincent as soon after she gets settled at home, as you like.
This is October. You may spend Christmas with her, you know."

"That is true; that is very true, and Christmas is not so very far
off. Ah! I ought not to have given way so, and I should not have
done it, only I was quite alone when they sailed. There was no one
with me to suggest these comforting thoughts, and I was too much
prostrated by the wrench of parting to remember them of myself. Oh,
Ishmael! what Providence was it that sent you to my side in this
extremity?" inquired the judge, curiosity mingling with his interest
in the question.

"I came here," said Ishmael frankly, "with no other purpose than to
be with you in your hour of trial. I knew that you would require the
presence of some friend."

"Ah, Ishmael! it was just like you to drop all your business and
come uncalled, traveling from Washington to New York, with the sole
object of sustaining an old friend in the hour of his weakness. So
that does not surprise me. But how did you hit the time so well?"

"I knew from Bee's last letter, dated from Tanglewood, the day that
Lord Vincent had positively determined to sail. I knew also the name
of the only steamer that sailed for Europe on that day. And so, as
Bee expressed great regret that her father could not accompany you
to New York, and great anxiety because you would be left quite alone
after the trial of parting with Claudia, I suddenly resolved to come
on. I came on by the same train that brought your party, although
not in the same car. I reached the city this morning, and finding
that the steamer was to sail at twelve, noon, I walked down to the
pier at half-past eleven so as to be ready to meet you when you
should come ashore."

"And you took all this thought and trouble for me? Oh, Ishmael,
Ishmael, what a sorrow and shame it is that you are not my son!"

"I am your son in reverence, and love, and service, sir; and if I am
not in any other way it is because the Lord has willed otherwise,"
said Ishmael very gravely.

"Did you see Claudia off?" inquired the judge.

"I saw the steamer; I did not see Lady Vincent. I was in the rear of
the crowd on the pier and looking out among them that I might not
miss you," replied Ishmael. But he did not add that he had
sedulously avoided looking at Claudia as she stood beside her
husband on the deck waving her handkerchief in adieus to her father.

In a few minutes Jim Morris came up with a comfortable carriage, and
the judge, somewhat recovered now, was assisted into it.

"You are coming too, Ishmael, are you not?" said the old man,
looking anxiously out of the window.

"Of course I am, sir; for with your permission I will not leave you
until we get back to Washington," replied the young man, preparing
to spring into the carriage. But suddenly pausing with his hand on
the door he inquired:

"Where shall I order the hackman to drive?"

The judge named his hotel, which happened to be the very one at
which Ishmael was stopping; and so the young man gave the order and
entered the carriage.

The professor climbed up to a seat beside the hackman, and the hack
moved on.

As the carriage turned into Broadway and rolled along that
magnificent street, the professor, from his elevated seat, gazed
with ever-increasing delight and admiration on the wonders of the
great city spread before him.

There were moments when honest Jim Morris was inclined to suspect
that, some time within the past few weeks, he must have died, been
buried, and risen again to some new stage of existence; so wonderful
to him seemed the change in his life. He had not had his
satisfaction with gazing when the carriage stopped at the hotel.

Ishmael paid off the hack and gave his arm to the judge, and
assisted him into the house.

"Ishmael," he said, as soon as they had reached a sitting room,
"have you no other business in New York than to look after me?"

"None whatever. I am entirely at your service."

"Then we--But stop. Are you quite ready to return to Washington at
any time?"

"Quite ready to go at a moment's warning, if required."

"Then I think we had better take the early train to-morrow morning,
for you ought not to be absent from your office, especially during
court term, and even I shall be better at home. We shall need to-day
and to-night for rest, but we will start to-morrow. What do you
think?"

"I think that is altogether the best plan."

As it was now about one o'clock the judge ordered luncheon. And when
they had partaken of it, and the judge had drunk several glasses of
rich old port, he said:

"Ishmael, I did not get a wink of sleep last night, and this wine
has made me drowsy. I think I will go to my chamber and lie down."

Ishmael gave the judge his arm and assisted him to his bed-room, and
saw him lie down, and waited until he knew him to be in a deep,
refreshing sleep; and then he closed the blinds, and darkened the
room, and left him to repose.

In the hall he spoke to one of the waiters, and placing a quarter of
an eagle in his hand, requested him to go up and remain near the
judge's chamber door until he should awake.

Then Ishmael sought the professor out and said to him:

"Professor, this is your first visit to New York, as it is also
mine. Let us make use of the little time we have to see as much as
we can."

Jim Morris eagerly jumped at the proposition.

Ishmael sent for a carriage, and they started; the professor this
time riding inside with Ishmael, as he always did when they were
alone.

They spent the whole afternoon in sight-seeing, and returned at
sunset.

The judge had not awakened, nor did he awake until roused by the
ear-stunning gong that warned all the guests to prepare for dinner.

He opened his eyes and stared around in bewilderment for a few
seconds, and then seeing Ishmael, remembered everything.

"Ah, my boy, now it is all come back to me afresh, and I have got to
meet it all over again. I had been dreaming that I was at Tanglewood
with my child, and she was neither married nor going to be. Now I
have lost her anew," he said, with a deep sigh.

"I know it, sir; but with every sleep and every awakening this
impression will be fainter and fainter. You will soon be cheerful
and happy again, in the anticipation of going to see her."

"Plague take that gong! how it does belabor and thrash one's
tympanum!" said the judge irritably, as he slowly arose to dress for
dinner.

After dinner Ishmael persuaded him not to stay in and mope, but to
go with him to hear a celebrated traveler and eloquent lecturer, who
was to hold forth in one of the churches on the manners and customs
of the Laplanders. The professor also had leave to go. And the judge
and Ishmael were well entertained and interested, and the professor
was instructed and delighted. Evidently the old odd-job man, judging
from his past and present experience, thought

  "That now the kingdom must be coming,
   And the years of jubilo."

They returned to a late supper, and then retired to bed.

Next morning they took the early train for Washington, where they
arrived at seven o'clock.

The judge went home with Ishmael and remained his guest for two or
three days, while he wrote to Reuben Gray to send up Sam and the
carriage for him; and waited for it to come.

Ishmael at the same time took the responsibility of writing to Mr.
Middleton, advising him to come up with the carriage in order to
bear the judge company in his journey home.

The last day of the week the carriage arrived with Mr. Middleton
inside and Sam on the box. And on Monday morning the judge, in
better spirits than anyone could have expected him to be, took an
affectionate leave of Ishmael, and with Mr. Middleton for company,
set out for Tanglewood, where in due time they arrived safely.

We also must bid adieu to Ishmael for a short time and leave him to
the successful prosecution of his business, and to the winning of
new laurels. For it is necessary to the progress of this story that
we follow the fortunes of Claudia, Viscountess Vincent.




CHAPTER XIV.

ROMANCE AND REALITY.

  If we had heard that she was dead
    We hastily had cried,
  "She was so richly favored
    God will forgive her pride!"
  But now to see her living death--
    Power, glory, arts, all gone--
  Her empire lost and her poor breath
    Still vainly struggling on!
                       --_Milnes._



The "Ocean Empress" steamed her way eastward. The month was
favorable; the weather bright; the wind fair and the sea calm. Every
circumstance promised a pleasant voyage. None but a few unreasonable
people grew seasick; and even they could not keep it up long.

There was a very select and agreeable set of passengers in the first
cabin.

But Lord and Lady Vincent were the only titled persons present; and
from both European and American voyagers received a ridiculous
amount of homage.

Claudia enjoyed the worship, though she despised the worshipers. Her
spirits had rebounded from their depression. She was Lady Vincent,
and in the present enjoyment and future anticipation of all the
honors of her rank. She gloried in the adulation her youth, beauty,
wealth, and title commanded from her companions on the steamer; hut
she gloried more in the anticipation of future successes and
triumphs on a larger scale and more extensive field.

She rehearsed in imagination her arrival in London, her introduction
to the family of the viscount; her presentation to the queen; and
the sensation she would produce at her majesty's drawing room, where
she was resolved, even if it should cost her her whole fortune, to
eclipse every woman present, not only in the perfection of her
beauty, but also in the magnificence of her dresses and the splendor
of her jewels. And after that what a season she would pass in
London! Whoever was queen of England, she would he queen of beauty
and fashion.

And then she would visit with Lord Vincent all the different seats
of his family; and every seat would be the scene of a new ovation!
As the bride of the heir she would be idolized by the tenants and
retainers of his noble family!

She would, with Lord Vincent, make a tour of the Continent; she
would see everything worth seeing in nature and in art, modern and
antique; she would be presented in succession at every foreign
court, and everywhere by her beauty and splendor achieve new
successes and triumphs! She would frequent the circles of American
ministers, for the express purpose of meeting there her
countrywomen, and overwhelming by her magnificence those who had
once, dared to sneer at that high flavor of Indian blood which had
given luster to her raven hair and fire to her dark eyes! Returning
to England after this royal progress on the Continent she would pass
her days in cherishing her beauty and keeping up her state.

And the course of her life should be like that of the sun,
beautiful, glorious, regnant! each splendid phase more dazzling than
any that had preceded it. Was not this worth the price she paid for
it?

Such were Claudia's dreams and visions. Such the scenes that she
daily in imagination rehearsed. Such the future life she delighted
to contemplate. And nothing--neither the attentions of her husband,
the conversation of her companions, nor the beauty and glory of sea
and sky--could win her from the contemplation of the delightful
subject.

Meanwhile in that lovely October weather the "Empress" 

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