AN ANCESTRAL PILGRIMAGE
Miss Ri was not one to be dilatory when an idea once took possession of
her, and she therefore began planning at once for the trip to "Mary's
Delight," where Judge Goldsborough lived. It was a roundabout journey
involving several changes, if one went all the way by rail to the
nearest station, but was not nearly so far if one drove from Sandbridge
to the point where a train could be had which would go direct to the
little village of Mackenzie. Miss Ri finally decided upon the latter
course, naturally choosing a Saturday as being the day when Linda could
most easily leave. It was not a matter to be made secret, and Berkley
was consulted as to the best method of getting to the desired point.
"You'd better take the train from Boxford to Mackenzie," he told them.
"Of course you must drive from here to Boxford, and you would better
send word ahead to Mackenzie to have some sort of vehicle ready for you
there to take you to 'Mary's Delight,' unless you prefer to let the
Goldsboroughs know you are coming."
Miss Ri shook her head. "I think I'll let that go, and trust to luck,
for it might be a bad day which would prevent our going, and I don't
want them to make preparations, as they might do; besides we want to
stop at the old church, and I should prefer a hired team if we are to
do that."
"Very well, then, suppose I drop a line to Mackenzie, to the postmaster
there, he knows me, and I'll tell him two ladies are coming from
Sandbridge. He will do all he can for you. You can go right to the
postoffice, and then it will be plain sailing."
"You are a good thoughtful boy, Berk, to smooth our way so nicely,"
Miss Ri told him. "By the way," she added, "aren't you feeling well
these days? You seem so serious. Anything wrong?"
The young man flushed up and turned over some papers on his desk. They
were in his office where Miss Ri had stopped to consult him. "I'm all
right," he replied in reply. "Working a little hard, maybe. I must, you
know, if I want to get ahead."
"And that is why you don't drop in so often," returned Miss Ri. Then
after waiting a moment for the answer which did not come, she went on.
"Well, you know you are always welcome, Berk. I may bamboozle you, but
you know it is all talk. Come when you can and thank you very much for
straightening out this route. I did not want to go around the other
way and be all day getting there, spending half the time waiting at
stations to make connections."
"I find the most direct way is generally the best," he told her. "When
you want to go across country you'd better drive instead of depending
upon trains. Good luck to you, Miss Ri." And he turned to his desk as
she went out.
Saturday furnished all that anyone could ask in the way of weather.
It was almost too warm for the season, and a few clouds piled up in
the west, but it could not be a finer day, as everyone declared with
satisfaction, and the two travellers sat down to their morning meal in
happy anticipation of what was before them.
"We're going to have a lovely time, Verlinda," remarked Miss Ri. "The
judge will have some good tales for us, I know. I am sure he will
be interested to know you are a great-niece of the Verlinda Talbot
he used to know, and, if report speaks the truth, with whom he was
much in love, but like the gallant gentleman he was, when she married
someone else he made no sign though he was hard hit, and he was always
a devoted friend to her and to your grandfather. His son Dick isn't
unlike him. He has a nice wife and half a dozen children, some of
whom are grown up by now." She was silent for a little while and then
she said, with half a laugh and half a sigh, "I didn't expect to be
visiting Dick Goldsborough's house in my old age."
Linda looked up from the coffee she was sipping. "That sounds very much
as if there were a story, a romance hidden in your remark."
Miss Ri gave a little comfortable laugh. "Well, there was something
like it once."
"Oh, Aunt Ri, and you never told me. Were you--were you engaged to Mr.
Dick Goldsborough?"
"No-o. You see there were two of us, Julia Emory and I, and it seemed
hard for him to make up his mind which he liked best--but finally--he
did."
"Oh, dear Aunt Ri! And he married the other girl? Did it--were you--"
"Oh, yes, I was dreadfully cut up for a time, I can frankly say. The
first year I thought I'd die and wanted to; the second I was not averse
to living, though in a sort of twilight world; the third I was quite
glad to live; the fourth I wondered how I could ever have been such a
sentimental goose, and the fifth I thanked the Lord that I had escaped."
"Oh, Aunt Ri, Aunt Ri, you are dreadful."
"It is a fact, I can assure you, and I have been thankful ever since,
not that Dick isn't a fine man, for he is, but, dear me, he would never
have suited me, as I came to find out, and he suits Julia to a T. They
are as happy as two clams at high tide."
"Then that is why you never married."
"It probably had something to do with it, for during the two or three
years when I was wearing the willow came other chances which I didn't
take, and when I had reached the stage of thanking the Lord for my
escape my patient suitors had become impatient and had danced off to
those who, in their opinions, had better taste. But, Verlinda, bear
this truth in mind; I am still thanking the Lord. Come, if you have
finished we'll be off. I see Nichols has sent around the man with the
surrey; he is waiting outside."
The ride to Boxford over level shell roads would have been pleasant
enough with a less companionable person than Miss Ri, but she who knew
every house along the way had innumerable stories to tell, humorous,
pathetic, romantic, and the time seemed very short before they reached
the station from which they were to start on the second and more
commonplace stage of their journey which ended at Mackenzie. This was
a small settlement which appeared to consist of the station, a country
store, and a few houses straggling along an unpaved street which
stretched out into the country road, leading on and on indefinitely.
There were few people in sight; a half dozen darkies lounged around
the station, inside which the telegraph operator clicked away at his
transmitter industriously, some children played in the street further
up, but no one else was to be seen.
"Where do you suppose the postoffice is?" asked Miss Ri, looking
around.
"At the store in all probability," replied Linda.
"We'll go over and see."
But, contrary to their expectation, they found the postoffice was not
there but at the second house up the street. They could read the sign
outside, they were told.
Its location known, the place was easy enough to find; a small white
house, like any other of its type. The door was ajar and the travellers
entered to find themselves in a square enclosure, a door to their left,
and in front of them a box-like structure with a sort of window cut in
it. Before the window hung a calico curtain. From behind this curtain
presently appeared the head of a man.
"Good morning, ladies," the voice came with pleasant eagerness; "you're
the ladies from Sandbridge? Mr. Matthews wrote to me about you. Will
you just walk into the front room there, and take seats while I am
sorting the mail. I'll be with you as soon as it is distributed."
Linda opened the only door in sight, and the two entered a plainly
furnished room, which, however, provided two comfortable chairs, and in
these they seated themselves to wait the postmaster's leisure.
They were mistaken if they thought their arrival was the unimportant
matter it would seem to be, for, as the villagers began to come in,
each made some excuse to enter the room, the first leaving the door
ajar so the visitors could distinctly hear the postmaster, as he
handed out the mail, importantly informing his friends: "The ladies
from Sandbridge have come." So one after another made some pretext for
seeing the strangers. "Where can I get a match?" one would inquire.
"Oh, I've opened the wrong door," the next would say, while the third
showed his ardent curiosity simply and honestly by merely standing in
the doorway and beaming on the two ladies. Once or twice a salutation
was offered, though more often it was not.
The finale occurred when two little girls, with hair slicked tightly
back and braided in flaxen pigtails, appeared, each holding the hand
of a little boy with as shining a face as her own. Each little girl
grasped a large red apple, in one hand, taking frequent succulent
bites as she stared with round china-blue eyes at the strangers. The
little roly-poly boy stared quite as fixedly, but at the first question
addressed, the three fled, though Miss Ri and Linda could hear them
shrilly reporting their experiences to someone in the next room.
In due time the postmaster appeared. "You wanted a fix, ladies, I
believe. I meant to have gotten Jo Wilson's, but he's gone to his
wife's brother's funeral. Maybe I can get Tom Skinner's; I'll see. I
reckon a buggy will do, and you can drive yourselves. Going to the old
church, I hear."
"I don't think we can drive," spoke up Miss Ri. "We don't know the
road, in the first place, and in the second I don't care to drive a
strange horse."
The man looked quite taken aback; he had not counted on these
complications. "Now, that's too bad," he said. "I just depended on
Jo, you see, but funerals won't wait. I'll look around and find out
what we can do." He departed, leaving the two to be peeped at over the
window-sill by three pairs of china-blue eyes. Evidently the children's
curiosity was not yet satisfied.
"I feel as if I belonged to a menagerie," laughed Linda, "and as if
they'd be feeding me peanuts next."
Miss Ri laughed and beckoned to the children who incontinently took to
their heels.
After some time the postmaster returned saying he had been able to
get a buggy and a boy to drive it. He hoped the ladies wouldn't mind
sitting three on a seat; the boy wasn't so very big. It was the best he
could do; he hoped they would be comfortable and if it hadn't been for
Jo Wilson's wife's brother all would have been well.
If Linda had been of Miss Ri's proportions they would have found it a
tight squeeze, but the boy, as reported, was not very big, and they
assured the postmaster that they could manage. The lad evidently had
been gathered in hastily from the fields to don his Sunday best, and to
make such ablutions as consisted in clearing a circular expanse in the
center of his face, and then wiping his wet hands on his hair which was
still moist from the application. With many charges to the boy and with
many anxious queries as to the comfort of the strangers, the postmaster
at last sped them on their way, and before many miles were covered the
old church appeared dully through the trees. It had a decayed, unkempt
aspect even at a distance, and a nearer view showed it set amidst riots
of thorny bushes, and old trees, which had never been trimmed.
In what probably had been the priest's quarters in bygone days, they
found an old woman who lived there as care-taker. She hobbled to the
door to open to their knock, showing one foot swathed in bandages.
She was as unkempt as the rest of it, but was both surprised and
pleased to see visitors, and was ready to display to them remnants
of tawdry hangings, shrines from which the paint was scaling, and
in the dingy church, a company of dusty saints who looked out dimly
from altar and niche, bedecked with once garish but now faded and
discolored artificial flowers. Miss Ri gazed around with an expression
half contemptuous, half pitying. "And this is where my grandparents
worshipped. Poor dears, I hope it was better in their day."
"Oh, it was a fine church once," spoke up their guide, "but very few
comes to it now, and there's a service only once a month."
They were glad to escape out into the sunlight. The old woman led
the way back to her own quarters, discoursing all the time upon her
ailments and asking for remedies. Being thirsty after the drive Linda
begged for a glass of water, but when a brass thimble was fished out of
a murky tumbler before it was filled, she concluded that nothing would
induce her to drink it, and finally she made the excuse of speaking to
the boy outside, when she found an opportunity of emptying the glass
upon the grass.
This turning aside to visit the church had occupied some time, and it
was noon when they reached "Mary's Delight," a beautiful old place
bordering upon one of the many salt rivers which pierce Maryland's
eastern shore. A tall, grey-haired man met them at the gate to open to
them. "Howdy, Dick Goldsborough," cried Miss Ri.
"Of all things, Maria Hill," he responded. "Get right out. Well, this
is a surprise. This your niece?"
"An adopted one. This is Betty Dorsey's daughter, Verlinda Talbot."
"Is that so? You are doubly welcome, Miss Talbot, for your father's as
well as your mother's sake. I declare, Maria, this does take me back to
old times. Come right in and I'll see about your horse. Where did you
drive from?"
"We came up from Mackenzie. I wanted to see the old church, and the
little boy has been our driver."
"Well, we can send him back and you shall return in a more comfortable
way when you are ready to go. The boy must have some dinner. Just drive
around to the stable, my boy, and one of the men will fix you up.
You are going to make us a good visit, I hope, Maria. Father will be
perfectly charmed to see you, and so will Julia."
They were ushered into a fine hall with a noble staircase rising on
either side to the floor above. On one side the hall was a large room
with a great fireplace now filled with crackling logs, in spite of the
mildness of the day. Before the fire sat an old white-haired man who
rose at the entrance of visitors.
"Here's a surprise for you, Father," said the younger man, raising his
voice slightly. "Here is an old friend and the daughter of another.
Miss Ri Hill and Jim Talbot's daughter have come to see us."
The old gentleman's fine face brightened as he held out a slender frail
hand. "My dears, I am delighted, pleased beyond measure to see you.
Won't you come to the fire after your drive?"
"It is very mild out, Judge; we won't come too near," Miss Ri told him.
He waited till they were seated and then took his old place, looking
at first one then the other. Linda thought him charming with a nobly
intellectual head, hair white and fine as floss, waving thickly around
a face full of strength and sweetness, eyes both wise and kind, still
showing brilliancy. The rather high and prominent nose was saved from
coarseness by delicate nostrils, the mouth had not lost its shapeliness
nor the chin its firmness.
Before Linda had time for many words with the judge Mrs. Goldsborough
entered to welcome them warmly and to carry them upstairs to lay
aside their wraps. A white-curtained room exhibiting the beauty lent
by handsome old furniture and exquisite neatness was placed at their
disposal. The windows on one side looked out on the river, on the other
was obtained a view of fields and garden. A little negro boy chasing
chickens was the liveliest object in sight. It was quite necessary that
chickens be caught for a company dinner, as Linda well knew.
The children were all at school, Mrs. Goldsborough told them, all but
the eldest daughter who was in Baltimore where an aunt would chaperon
her in this her débutante season. The younger children had a governess
at home, the two older boys were at St. John's in Annapolis. Mrs.
Goldsborough, a very neat, still rather pretty woman, was graciousness
itself, and would fain have carried Miss Ri off for a long talk,
but that she must be down-stairs to oversee the rather inefficient
servants which the country supplied. So the visitors were handed over
to the judge and his son.
Miss Ri was not long in bringing the conversation around to where she
wanted it, and began her queries on the subject of the Talbot estates,
giving the judge her reasons for asking. With the intricacies of a
conjectural case in view the judge threw up his head like an old war
horse and declared his opinion. "Any flaw in the title to Jim Talbot's
property? Of course not. He was the eldest son as his father and
grandfather were before him. The home plantation was always left to
the eldest son. Madison Talbot bought Addition from his brother Cyrus
when he went west, I am sure of that. Talbot's Addition was what Cyrus
inherited from his father, while Madison had the Angles. Oh, I can't
make any mistake there. Anyone who claims the Angles can't have a shred
of proof. I've a lot of papers somewhere; I'll get them out, Maria, and
you shall hear from me. Dick, don't let me forget that. I think the
papers are in the old secretary in my office, but I am not sure; they
may have been moved. Who is this young man, Maria, who says he is the
great grandson of Cyrus Talbot? Let me see. Hm!" He put the tips of his
delicate fingers together and bent his gaze on the fire. "Cyrus had a
son who was killed in the War of 1812, I remember that, but this son
was unmarried. There was a daughter who went away with him."
"Lovina, wasn't it?"
"Yes, that was the name. I remember all that. You can't get me confused
when it comes to those old matters, Maria; it is what happened
yesterday that I forget. I'll look up those papers, however, and we
will see if there is any sort of complication. Dinner, did you say,
Julia? Maria, allow me. Dick, will you take out Miss Talbot?" And in
this stately and formal manner they were conducted to the dining-room
where was spread such a meal as one rarely sees except in just such
a house in just such a locality. A great platter of fried chicken
stood at one end of the table, a home-cured ham at the other, oysters,
numerous vegetables smothered in rich cream, homemade jellies, pickles
and sauces, the ever-present beaten biscuits, corn bread, wheat bread,
all were there, and at the last a dainty dessert served with thick
cream and pound cake.
The judge entertained them with many a tale of the days when he was
young, when Martin Talbot, Senior, and he were chums, when old Admiral
Hill used to sail over to Sandbridge from Annapolis to spend a holiday
in his old home and to stir the boys' young blood with his sea stories.
It was after dinner that Miss Ri had a chance to talk to the old man
in confidence and to tell him of Linda's misfortunes while he frowned
and shook his head and spoke of men who disgraced themselves and their
families by marrying beneath them, and at last he became so scornful
of "John Blair's people," that Miss Ri was glad Linda was not at hand
to hear. She was with the children and their pretty young governess out
in the little school-house where the day's lessons were had, and it was
only when she was sent for that she realized how happy a time she was
having.