REVELATIONS
The ladies’ parlor of the Blank Hotel, in the city of Washington,
consisted of several rooms thrown into one by arches, draped with
curtains.
It was the habit of the guests to collect in family or social groups in
the several compartments of this saloon, where each circle could enjoy
some privacy apart from the stranger inmates.
On this warm evening in May all the Forces, except the mother, all the
Grandieres who were in Washington, the Hedges, Miss Bayard, Roland, Gen.
Anglesea and the Earl of Enderby, were assembled in the rear alcove, at
a safe distance from any other guests who might be in the parlor.
For still greater privacy the curtains of the arch had been lowered, and
for coolness the sashes of the bay window at the back had been raised.
They thus enjoyed something like the seclusion of a domestic drawing
room.
There was a gay group at the other extremity of the saloon, and the
sound but not the sense of their talk and laughter sometimes reached our
party in the rear alcove.
But nothing that was spoken among the latter could possibly reach the
ears of the former.
The alcove was in pleasant shade this summer evening. Some one had asked
leave of the others, and then had lowered the gas, to decrease the heat,
as well as to subdue the light. The May moon, at its full, shone in
through the open bay window, and softly illumined the interior, falling
directly on the pale face of Abel Force, who occupied a large easy chair
in the midst of his party, who were seated around him, waiting in eager
attention for his words.
The squire of Mondreer began to speak in a somewhat formal manner.
“My friends,” he said, “I have asked you all to meet me here that I may
explain to you some family matter that you have not hitherto understood,
or rather, that you have entirely misunderstood up to this day.”
The squire paused in some embarrassment.
Miss Sibby took advantage of the momentary silence to nudge Miss
Susannah Grandiere and whisper:
“I knowed it. Everything as is hid, sez I, is sure to come out, sez I;
but it’s nothing ag’in Abel Force, whatever it is, sez I. I’ll bet on
the old squire every time, sez I.”
Mr. Force went on:
“You have all taken—or seemed to take—much for granted in our lives
which was not true. Now did you not?”
“Why—not that I know of, Force. I don’t know of any mistakes we any of
us ever made about you,” exclaimed old Capt. Grandiere, answering for
all his neighbors. “In what respect have we done you wrong?” he next
inquired.
“In no respect have you done me wrong. You have only taken some things
for granted and made some harmless mistakes.”
“What mistakes?”
These questions helped the embarrassed squire in his awkward
explanations. Perhaps he drew them out for the purpose.
“For instance,” he replied, “you all took it for granted, when I married
in Europe, that I had married a young lady who had never been married
before.”
“Yes, of course,” replied the old skipper, while every one else listened
in silent expectation.
“You never imagined that I had married a young widow.”
“Good Heaven! No!” exclaimed the old sailor, opening his eyes to their
widest extent. “None of us ever could have dreamed of such a thing. So
Mrs. Force was a widow when you married her?”
“Yes; the widow of the late Prince Luigi Saviola, of Naples.”
“Goo-oo-ood gracious! And you never let on a word about it to any of
us!”
“There was no occasion. The way did not open to make such an
announcement without apparent egotism,” replied the squire, discreetly,
but not very convincingly.
“I confess I do not see where the egotism would have been,” said Miss
Susannah Grandiere.
“There may be a difference of opinion on that head,” said Abel Force. “I
could not go up and down the country proclaiming aloud to all and sundry
of my farmer neighbors that I had married the widow of the late Prince
Luigi Saviola. Nor should I even mention the fact here among my old
friends this evening but that new developments of circumstances have
made it necessary to do so.”
“‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ sez I. Not that Abel Force has
anything to do with the devil, sez I. No, indeed. I bet on Abel Force
every time, sez I,” muttered Miss Sibby, aside to Mrs. Hedge.
“Now, squire, speak right up. Tell us all about it. You look as if you
couldn’t come to the point. You have got something more to tell us
besides that you married a beautiful young widow. Out with it, squire.
We are all friends here,” heartily exclaimed old Gideon Grandiere.
Thus backed up and encouraged, the embarrassed and hesitating master of
Mondreer took heart of grace, and told the story of his wife’s first
marriage. Not the whole story, by a long deal! He suppressed much that
did not concern his neighbors to be told, and would not have edified
them to hear.
For instance, he never hinted a word about the runaway marriage of the
fascinating Italian exile with the too romantic young school girl. He
merely told of the marriage of Prince Luigi Saviola, of Naples, with the
Lady Elfrida Glennon, only daughter of the Earl of Enderby. Of their
travels over the Continent, and of the birth of their only son at
Geneva.
He breathed no syllable of the fatal duel in which the prince had
fallen; but told them that he had died suddenly while on a visit to
Paris; and that soon after his death his widow had returned to the
protection of her father, in whose company he—Abel Force—had first met
her in Switzerland; and that he had been so charmed with her that he had
won her affections, and that he had married her some months later in
England.
At this point of the story Abel Force paused for a few moments, and then
said:
“It would be too long and tedious a tale to tell you how we both became
separated from our only son—that is, my wife’s son by her first
marriage, and my son by adoption and by affection—the young man whom you
have known as Roland Bayard, but, who, in truth, is no other than
Rolando Saviola, the only son of the late Prince Luigi Saviola and of
the Lady Elfrida, his wife. Enough that lately has come over from Europe
this gentleman, Gen. Anglesea, the long-time friend of my wife’s family,
who was present at her marriage with the prince; who was present also at
the death of the lately deceased, aged Prince Antonio Saviola, and is
the appointed executor of his will. Gen. Anglesea has come to America in
search of the heir, and has found him in the person of the young man
whom, as I have said, you have known so long as Roland Bayard.”
As Mr. Force concluded his narrative a silence of astonishment fell on
the circle.
“And now,” put in the earl, “I hope all our friends understand the
position of my nephew here.”
Old Capt. Grandiere started up and seized Roland’s hand, and shook it
heartily.
Little Rosemary slipped her slender fingers in those of the earl, and
whispered:
“Didn’t I tell you Roland was of patrician birth? Didn’t I tell you he
looked like you? I am not the least surprised.”
The earl caressed the little hand that was resting in his, but made no
reply in words.
“Yes, for all that I knew it all along, and am not surprised, I do feel
as if I was hearing it all read out of a romance, by the evening fire,
in Aunt Sukey’s old room in the farmhouse,” added Rosemary, dreamily.
Le followed the example of Capt. Grandiere, went up and shook Roland by
the hand, whispering:
“I am heartily glad of your good fortune, old fellow—heartily glad! Not
that any fortune, good or ill, could affect my friendship for you.”
“It is not likely,” smiled Roland. “If you did not lose faith in me when
I was in the role of the pirate captain’s mate, surely no amount of
adversity could turn you against me. And as for prosperity, I know, Le,
that mine gives you unselfish joy.”
All now in turn shook hands with Roland, and wished him well.
The young man cordially responded to all this sympathetic pleasure.
Mr. Force’s friends were not quite satisfied—all was not cleared up to
their contentment. They wished to know how it happened that Roland had
been separated from his parents in his infancy.
But the mystery, which has been revealed to the reader, was never made
clear to them, though subsequently various reports got into circulation
concerning the lost child—the most popular of which, originating no one
knew how, was that Roland had been stolen by gypsies. This romance came
finally to be received as the truth.
It was late that night when the party separated and retired to rest.