VII.

It has not been concealed that, with all his fine qualities, Mr. Ketchum

was an obstinate man, and so, in spite of his wife's remonstrances, he

came down-stairs next morning--Sunday morning--in a dress that she had

assured him was "only fit for one's bedroom,"--namely, a very gorgeous

Oriental dressing-gown (Mabel's gift the preceding Christmas), with a fez

on his head, and on his feet a pair of slippers of amazing workmanship and

soundlessness, the joy of his feet, if not of his heart. Thus accoutred,

he prowled about on the lower floor, looking after various things, and,

going into the pantry for something, he chanced to look through the small

window used for the transmission of dishes from the next room, and saw

Parsons holding a pile of letters one by one over a steaming kettle.

Unconscious of his proximity, the respectable Parsons dexterously and

neatly opened several envelopes with a practised hand, and then

transferred the letters to her pocket, to be enjoyed at her leisure, after

which she laid hold of the kettle and retired into the kitchen beyond.

"Well, upon my word, if that isn't the coolest thing I ever saw!"

exclaimed Mr. Ketchum mentally, and, feeling that he had made a great

discovery, was at first for sharing it immediately with Parsons's mistress;

but on reflection he thought differently. "It is her funeral: I guess I

had better not meddle: there would be a great scene," he thought. "At any

rate, I'll wait until they are leaving before putting her on her guard."

He went back to the dining-room to his newspaper, and sat there until the

others came down.

Miss Noel was not long in the room before an idea struck her. "Did you not

say that your post-bag containing the night's mail would be sent over this

morning?" she asked.

"I did. It came about an hour ago," said Mr. Ketchum.

"How very nice! I hope there may be something for me. It is so very trying

to get no news from England," said Miss Noel.

"Why, Mabel had twenty-three letters laid aside for you until you should

come. Didn't she give them to you?" asked Mr. Ketchum. "Were none of those

from England?"

"Oh, yes. But that was three days since, and I've heard nothing for a

fortnight. If Parsons has _quite_ finished with the letters, I suppose I

may as well have them. And she must be, by this. Would you kindly ring and

send for them?" said Miss Noel.

"What! you know that she reads your letters?" exclaimed Mr. Ketchum,

surprised.

"Oh, dear, yes. They all do. It is very tiresome, but they will do it.

Parsons is generally good enough to let me have them quite promptly; but

she reads them, of course,--all but my cousin Blanche Best's letters.

Blanche has always been my most intimate friend, and can't bear the idea:

so she blocked the game by a most ingenious device. She writes one

sentence in French, the next in Italian, the third in English,--at least

she did until a happier plan suggested itself: now she writes English in

German text. It answers perfectly; but it is having a great effect on

Parsons, quite undermining her constitution, I fear, especially when

important things are happening at 'The Court,' where I often go. I

sometimes wickedly slip one of Blanche's letters under the pin-cushion, as

if with the intention of concealing it, and I have so enjoyed seeing

Parsons whip it under her apron when she got the chance, knowing that she

could not make out a single word. She really looked quite green afterward

for a week: pure chagrin."

"I am sure I have done everything that I could think of to keep my letters

from my man," said Sir Robert, "but quite without success. I think he

finds my correspondence a little dull sometimes, as compared with that of

a former place. He came to me from the greatest scamp in England; and I

can fancy that the letters there were very various and diverting. My own

must be altogether too ponderous and respectable for a taste formed on

sensational models."

"Well, all I have got to say is that if I caught a servant of mine at that

little game I'd make my letters uncommonly interesting reading to him; and

if the style suited him, I'd see that he got a little leisure in the

penitentiary to copy them and impress them on his mind. Do you mean to say

that you don't even discharge them for it?" said Mr. Ketchum, "I never

heard anything like it!"

"One could discharge the culprit easily enough; the trouble is that his

successor or successors would do exactly the same thing," replied Sir

Robert. "When the Barons rose, they neglected to provide a remedy for an

unforeseen nuisance, and I suppose this literary partnership of Master &

Servant, Limited, will always exist. I wrote a note once to Beazely (my

man), addressed to myself, and told him that if he disapproved of the

Conservative tone of my correspondence, as was likely, seeing that he was

a Radical, I would make an effort to get at Dilke or Bright, with a view

to an _occasional_ note at least. The envelope had been resealed, I saw

when it reached me, but Beazely had no more expression in his face than

the Sphinx. My letters, however, were not tampered with for about a week."

Mrs. Ketchum senior became fluent in her amazement: "How perfectly

dreadful! Good gracious! What did you do about your husband's letters? The

idea of sharing his letters with a servant!"

She was addressing Mrs. Sykes, who said very cheerfully in reply, "Oh,

there was never anything in his letters, except warnings to put the

servants at board-wages before I went away, and look to expenditures, and

not ask him for any more money soon. I didn't mind much. I was rather

ashamed of the spelling,--that was all. Poor dear Guy never could spell,

and I never read anything so dull as his letters,--the same thing over and

over again, till it hardly seemed worth while to open them, only for

knowing what he was up to, or when he was coming. How my poor sisters did

laugh one Christmas when I got a letter from him in Italy, saying, 'The

cole here is intense; but I have got a projick in my head, which is to get

back to England as fast as rale and steme can possibly carry me'! It

wasn't often that bad; but there was always something wrong. I can't think

how it is, for he had no end of tutors and masters, except that he

certainly was a very thick-headed fellow." She laughed merrily over the

epistolary deficiencies of her late lord as she spoke, and every one

joined her except Mrs. Ketchum, who was too shocked to countenance her.

"I saw Parsons in the very act of opening your letters this morning as I

was roaming around in my Jesuit creepers, and thought you would be

horrified; but it seems to be all right," said Mr. Ketchum, glancing down

at his slippers. "Suppose, now, we have some breakfast: it is late. We

haven't nearly as much time as the patriarchs, anyway, and so much more

use for it."

"I have been thinking it would never be ready," said Mrs. Sykes.

"And I am quite ready for it. Isn't that a nice new-laid egg for me?"

asked Miss Noel, taking her place with the others.

"Mabel, eggs for Miss Noel every morning, if she likes them, and don't you

forget it," said Mr. Ketchum. "'Trouble'? Not the least that ever was. I

have them for myself always. An egg for me must be like Caesar's wife,

--above suspicion. I have provided myself with a conscientious High-Church

hen that lays one every day of the year; though how she can think it worth

her while, when they are selling for ten cents a dozen, I can't

imagine.--What's the matter, Heathcote?"

The matter was the "Jesuit creepers" and the hen combined, which had sent

all the party into a little fit of laughter, from which Mr. Heathcote

could not recover.

"I don't see anything to double you up like a jack-knife," said Mr.

Ketchum, in allusion to his guest's way of stooping over and having the

laughs, as it were, shaken out of him by a superior force, while he got

out at intervals,--

"Jest--creep--High--such a fellow!" in staccato jerks that made every one

else laugh from sympathy.

"I call 'em that because Mother Schmidt made them for me so that I could

steal a march on my mother-in-law, and she's a Catholic and knew how to do

it. Talking of Catholics and what Washington calls the 'Peskypalians,' who

is going to church to-day?"

"I am going to walk over to Dale with Bijou Brown and her father," said

Ethel.

"That isn't as nice a church as ours. We will take the others into Kalsing,

eh, husband?" said Mabel; "that is, if they will come."

"I will go to the scaffold with Mrs. Ketchum," protested Sir Robert

gallantly. "What do you youngsters say?"

"Ramsay and I thought we would walk over to that little village on the

crest of a hill that one can see from my window," said Mr. Heathcote.

"You had much better go to church, --much better. But of course your soul

is your own," said Sir Robert.

"You won't have much body left when you get back: it is a good twenty

miles," remarked Mr. Ketchum.

"Oh, that is nothing." replied Mr. Ramsay.

"Forty miles there and back! Are they crazy?" Mrs. Ketchum asked of Mabel

_sotto voce_; to which a smile and shake of the head came in answer.--"The

day is very damp, Job. I am almost afraid to go out; but it is my duty,

and I will."

"That's right, ma. Do your duty. It is a good earthly as well as heavenly

investment," replied Mr. Ketchum.

"But I wish, son, that you would live in Kalsing, next to the church, or

in New York, which would be better. I saw a beautiful house advertised in

the neighborhood of Trinity Church the other day, and wrote to ask about

it," said Mrs. Ketchum, who was always in spirit moving the family away

from Fairfield.

"You are too speculative, ma, entirely," said he. "You are like my partner,

Richardson, who would write to ask the Czar what he would take for the

Winter Palace, if I'd let him, when if steamships were a dollar a dozen he

couldn't put up enough to buy a gang-plank. I can't move next to a church,

because all you womenites belong to different ones; but I can take a room

for you in the steeple and have an elevator put in that will make close

connection with the services, if you like."

"Don't be irreverent, my son," said Mrs. Ketchum, who, like some other

Protestants, believed in an infallible steeple, if not an infallible Pope.

"I don't expect _my_ wishes to be considered in anything."

"Oh, come, now, ma; that isn't fair. Except that I married to suit myself,

which is about the only foolish thing that I have done, I have been

tolerably obedient, I think," said Mr. Ketchum, aware that he was on

dangerous ground.

"Do tell us about it. You wanted him to marry some one else,--some one

with a fortune, didn't you?" said Mrs. Sykes. "Quite natural, I am sure."

"She wanted me to marry the ugliest woman east of the Rockies," said Mr.

Ketchum. "But I couldn't stand that face behind my cups and saucers three

hundred and sixty-five days in the year, and I bolted to England, where my

wife picked me up."

"She wasn't so ugly at all, Job, except that her nose was a little

aquiline," protested Mrs. Ketchum.

"Aquiline as a camel's back," asserted her son, in an aside.

"And her hair _was_ rather auburn," Mrs. Ketchum went on, in reluctant

concession.

"Call it pink, as the English do their hunting-coats," suggested he,

smiling.

"But such a dear, _good_ girl, you quite forgot that she wasn't exactly

handsome" ("No, not precisely," interjected he) "when you came to know

her."

"That I _never_ did. It might as a speculation have done to get a cast of

her face for andirons to keep the American child from falling into the

fire; but _marry her_! Good Lord! When I eat anything now that disagrees

with me, I dream of Emily's mouth," affirmed Mr. Ketchum, with the most

laughing mirth in his eyes, his mobile features expressing volumes.

"Her mouth _was_ large, and her teeth _a little_ prominent. But you shall

not abuse Emily any more. You would have been very happy with her, I can

tell you," asserted Mrs. Ketchum. "You would have got over her mouth."

"I might in time have got _around_ it, and I could easily have got _into_

it, but I should never have got _over_ it in the world," affirmed Mr.

Ketchum, with decision. "I would rather be married to that Puseyite there,

unhappy as I am."

This closed the little duel between the mother and son, and another laugh

drowned Mabel's remark to Miss Noel, which was, "Husband is in one of his

joking moods, and does not mean that he is _really_ unhappy at all. He

should not say such things, they are so very misleading."

When quiet was restored, a discussion followed about the parties in the

English Church, and, the question being raised as to who was the head of

the Low Church party, Mr. Ketchum had just said, "Why, _Lucifer_, of

course," when, amid general merriment, Miss Brown walked in, saying, "I

never heard of such an uproarious Sunday party. Are you ready, Ethel? We

ought to be off,"--which practically ended the meal, for first Mr. Ramsay

and then the others left the table, he to talk to Bijou, they to get ready

for church. Job's eyes followed Mr. Ramsay, and he said to Sir Robert,

"What a charming girl Mrs. De Witt was in the old Cheltenham days!

Heathcote didn't make the landing there, and I'm sorry."

"So am I. She is an immense favorite of mine," said Sir Robert. "As

charming as ever! It was a more serious thing than I thought it would be.

I doubt whether he ever marries."

"She was a born enchantress, Jenny was," he replied. "Some women are like

poison oak,--once get them in your system, and they will break out on you

every spring for fifty years, if you live that long, fresh and painful as

ever. But as for his marrying, some one of our girls will enter for the

Consolation stakes, very likely, and he will be married before he knows

what has hurt him."

"A consummation devoutly to be wished," said Sir Robert. "He is my heir,

you know."

In a few minutes Ethel joined Bijou, who looked at her rather hard, as she

felt. Ethel wore a simple serge dress, heavy boots, a stout frieze jacket,

and a hat of a shape unknown in America, that seemed to be all cocks'

plumes. Her eyes being weak, she had put on her smoked glasses. The day

being damp, and her chest delicate, she had added her respirator. "I am

nicely protected, am I not?" she said contentedly. "I had a severe cold

last winter, from which I am not quite recovered, and auntie thinks I had

best be prudent. Are you ready?"

"Not quite," said Bijou. "I want to see Mrs. Ketchum a moment." She ran

off, accordingly, into the library in search of the old lady, whom she

found there looking out the lessons, it being her practice to verify every

word the clergyman read, and no small satisfaction to catch him tripping.

"Do, Mrs. Ketchum, speak to Ethel and get her to take off those machines

and put on something stylish," said Bijou. "I am really ashamed to take

her into our pew; people will stare so. She is a perfect fright. The idea

of a girl making herself look like that!"

Mrs. Ketchum, however, declined to interfere, and when Bijou got back to

the drawing-room Ethel was missing. Taking advantage of Bijou's absence,

she had gone up-stairs, and, during the library interview, was saying to

her aunt, "You never saw anything got up as she is,--silk, and satin, and

lace, and bracelets, and feathers, and what not. And for church, too! I

wonder she should turn out like that: she should have better taste. I

really don't quite like going with her, she looks so conspicuous,--just as

if she were going to a garden-party or flower-show, for all the world."

When they met again, both girls looked a little conscious, and Ethel said,

"How very smart you are!"

"Why, this is an old dress that I put on for fear it might rain," said

Bijou. "Don't you hate having to wear goggles and cages and things? It

must be perfectly horrid."

"I don't mind. Of course one isn't looking one's best; but that is of no

consequence. Health is the first consideration," said Ethel. "Ah! there

comes your father."

Of the walk it need only be said that it was very pleasant going, and

rained a little coming back; that Ethel produced her "goloshes," put up

her umbrella, and walked home as serenely as her concern for Bijou would

admit. That young lady had on paper-soled boots that got soaking wet, a

fine summer parasol that she seemed to think fulfilled every office that

was desirable in shielding her bonnet, a dress ill fitted to resist chill

or dampness. She persisted that she was "all right," while her pretty

teeth chattered; but she caught a violent cold, and was in bed a week,

while Ethel came down to dinner as rosy as Baby Ketchum, and ate as

heartily as Mr. Ramsay and Mr. Heathcote, who certainly showed themselves

good trenchermen. Mrs. Ketchum persisted in regarding the two young men

very much as though they had been returned Arctic travellers, and amused

them not a little by suggesting that they should lie down all the evening.

"Why, we haven't turned a hair. We are as fit as a fiddle," they exclaimed,

and looked anything but unstrung.

Ethel had made one speech that astonished Bijou considerably. "Do you know,

I have been watching you ever since I have known you," she said, "to see

if it was true? That is, that the American ladies _spat_ on all occasions,

as I have read. Don't think me rude to mention it."

"We don't quarrel any more than any one else," said Bijou, quite

misunderstanding.

"I don't mean that, you know: _expectorate_. And I see it was not true at

all. I have not seen it once," explained Ethel.

"I should think not! Well, I do think! How could you believe such

ridiculous nonsense?" asked Bijou indignantly.

"Don't be vexed, Bijou dear. I did not mean to make unkind reflections. It

was only that I had read a stupid book about America," said Ethel; and

peace was restored.

As for the other members of the party, they had gone to a handsome church

in Kalsing, which boasted the best stained glass in the country and was

thoroughly churchly and attractive. Here they not only heard good music,

but one of the most eloquent preachers in "the American branch of the

English establishment," as Sir Robert called the Episcopalian communion.

It amused Mr. Ketchum not a little to see the way in which the baronet

conducted his devotions,--his preliminary prayer in his silk hat, from

which streamed a halo of side-whiskers, the heartiness with which he

joined in the service, especially the way in which, avoiding all the

compromises the male American practises in prayer-time (such as bending

forward a little, or leaning back pensively with the hand shading the

face), he plumped squarely down on his knees, turned up a pair of shoes

half as long as his very respectable, tightly-rolled umbrella, and made

his responses in a clear, audible voice, like an honest gentleman and a

miserable sinner.

It did not escape Mr. Ketchum's keen eyes, either, that although Sir

Robert contributed a five-dollar bill to the offertory, he first rolled it

up into a tiny, unrecognizable wad before dropping it into the alms-basin.

The service over, Sir Robert and the eminent divine were made acquainted.

The latter said he would call as soon as he could snatch a moment, and Sir

Robert, his hands folded behind his back, holding his hat and gloves, made

the rounds of the church, inspecting every bit of carving, frescoing,

glass, and brass, and making the most intelligent criticisms upon what he

saw to Miss Noel in a whisper. Mrs. Sykes sat still in the pew, fuming at

being "let in for a charity sermon," for some inexplicable reason, seeing

she had given nothing to the charity. Miss Noel was stopped at the door by

no less a person than Captain Kendall, who had suddenly discovered that he

had a great-aunt living in Kalsing, whom he must see, and now stood there

saying, "Where is Miss Ethel? How is it that you are here without her? I

hope she is quite well."

"My niece, Miss Heathcote, is quite well, thanks, and has gone to church

elsewhere," said Miss Noel, with dignity, intending to mildly repress a

young gentleman whom she thought a little too free with his "Miss Ethels."

"Then I will have the pleasure of calling upon you to-morrow," said

Captain Kendall, unabashed and joyous, as he walked away.

So active an intelligence as Sir Robert's requires plenty of food, and

when Mrs. Ketchum senior issued from her room about ten the next morning,

whom should she meet in the hall but the baronet in a state of the most

overflowing energy and brilliant good humor, dressed in a suit of striped

red-and-white "pajamas," having on his head a paper cap, under his arm a

roll of designs, and in his mind the delightful intention of painting the

ceiling of Mabel's boudoir!

"Good-morning, madam. Here we are," he said, shaking his box of paints and

stencils at her. "I have improvised a scaffolding, and am now going to

work on my outlines. I planned the whole thing in bed last night, and,

unless I am much mistaken, we are going to have the prettiest boudoir in

this part of the country. I shall do a panel or two to get the effect, and

any workman can finish it."

"But can you do it?" asked Mrs. Ketchum, amazed, but interested.

"You shall see. I frescoed the chapel on my place at home, and I may say

there have been worse pieces of work," replied Sir Robert, descending the

stairs as he spoke, eager to get to work.

"Is he _raving crazy_, Mabel? What on earth has he got on? He isn't

_respectable_. I declare to goodness, he has set my heart beating so I

shan't get over it all day," said the startled lady to her daughter-in-law,

who joined her just then.

"Oh, for shame, ma, to give yourself away like that! Fashionable men wear

those costumes altogether now," said Mr. Ketchum, coming up. "You see,

Daisy, that if I shocked him beyond expression yesterday morning, as you

said I should, he has horrified me to death to-day: so I guess we are

quits. Come along: let's go down to see the trapeze-performance."

Down they went, and, meeting Mr. Ramsay, who was coming up, Job stopped a

moment to tell him to take out any of the horses that he fancied. "Take

the piebalds," said he, "if you'd like to have a drive, and take some nice

girl--Miss Ethel or Bijou Brown--for a two-forty shine."

"Thanks awfully," said Mr. Ramsay. "But I think I had better--that is, I

had rather ask Heathcote."

"You are horribly welcome, but I don't think much of your taste," replied

Mr. Ketchum, not understanding what a proposition he had made.

In the lower hall they found the eminent divine, irreproachably clerical

and dignified, and Captain Kendall, just arrived. Sir Robert, hearing

voices, came out, brush in hand, to welcome them, producing quite as great

an impression on them as on Mrs. Ketchum. "I belong to the working-classes

now. Just you come here and see how the fine arts are prospering in the

State of Michigan," said he, and led them into the boudoir, where he

nimbly ran up a step-ladder, laid himself out on the scaffolding, and,

with a bold, free touch, went on sketching a procession of Cupids which

was to go around the base of the small dome, talking all the while with

the utmost animation to the guests below. "As soon as I get in this fellow

riding a dolphin, I shall be entirely at your service," said he. "No

considerations of respect and attachment to the Church or fear of the Army

can influence me just now."

The two gentlemen begged that he would go on; the ladies came in, and

together they passed an agreeable morning, Sir Robert declaring that on

the scaffold he was entitled to benefit of clergy, and begging the eminent

divine when he left to let him have his ghostly counsel every day for at

least a week. In spite of his eminence, this gentleman had no very great

breadth of view. To sit about on boxes and window-seats, picnicking in an

empty room, while the stranger upon whom he had come to call lay above him

in red pajamas, painting Cupids on the ceiling, was to his mind

monstrously indecorous. It was amusing to see the dignified way in which

he took the pleasantries of the party; and he made no response to Sir

Robert's farewell overture except a bow. "Your guest is a very

entertaining man," he said to Mr. Ketchum, who accompanied him to the

hat-rack, "but is he quite--quite--you understand?"

"Perfectly so," said Job, with a laugh. "Head and heart both of the best,

as you will find out when you know him better. You are coming back to

dinner, ain't you, to help us out with the fatted calf?"

The dinner was a very elegant affair of twenty-five covers, given to the

guests, the first of a series of entertainments planned in their honor.

All the notable people of the neighborhood were represented at it. The

scandalized divine returned to partake of it, and, seeing Sir Robert in a

dress-suit, dignified, polished, of preternatural respectability, not to

say distinction, looking the pillar of Church and State that he was, and

talking with due gravity of the tariff, free trade, and the like ponderous

subjects, concluded to overlook the mad behavior of the morning, and,

joining him, gave him a long account of the Indian Missions of the Church.

Unconscious of having done anything that might be regarded as eccentric,

Sir Robert was all affability, soon grew interested, asked a number of

questions as to the death-rate among the tribes, the prevalence of

smallpox and cholera among them, the spread of civilization, confirmed

nomadism, traces of Jewish rites, and so on, thanked him for a "very

profitable half-hour," and said he should send a little check to be

applied in any way he might see fit, obliterating thereby the last trace

of the previous prejudice. This, indeed, was replaced by something very

like enthusiasm when there came next day a slip of paper representing five

hundred dollars, also a note from the donor, saying that he should be glad

to know that some portion of the sum enclosed had gone to an industrial

school, if any such existed, where the young Indian women could learn to

boil a potato properly, and the use of brooms and pails and

scrubbing-brushes. "You must first clean them and then convert them: get

them into the bath-tub, and you can take them anywhere," said Sir Robert,

with great truth and perspicacity.

"One doesn't get such a dinner, except at a few great houses, outside of

London or Paris," Mrs. Sykes was pleased to say when it was over. "I have

found out that almost everything was ordered from New York; and a pretty

penny it must have cost. Not that this man cares. I dare say he is only

too glad to have the chance of entertaining me,--that is, us. I was sent

in with a waspish little man that turned suddenly crusty on my hands and

was an owl for the rest of the time; but I was rather glad to be able to

devote myself to my dinner for once."

Mrs. Sykes's escort had "turned crusty" because that lady, following her

instinct of ingratiation, had said to him, "All the gentry of this country

are in the South, aren't they? They don't live about here, do they?"--not

from a prejudice in favor of Southerners at all, as was proved when she

went to New Orleans later and promptly asked the first acquaintance she

made whether all the education was not at the North.

The week that followed was a very gay one, the Ketchums' friends in the

neighborhood and in Kalsing being most intent on hospitable thoughts and

providing something agreeable in the shape of an entertainment for every

night. Every moment of the day, too, of every day was filled up. It seemed

to Mrs. Ketchum that "those English people," as she called them, were

never idle, and had discovered the secret of perpetual motion.

Sir Robert had the boudoir, to which he devoted exactly two hours after

breakfast. He had a geological chart of America, with what he felt to be

melancholy blanks for the chalk and oolite beds of his own country, and

appropriate fossils indicated by an index-finger in red ink. He had the

Poor-Law and electoral systems to master, as well as the prison systems of

the different States. He had to prove that the Mound-Builders and the race

that built the buried cities of Central America were one and the same. He

had innumerable questions, political, social, agricultural, pressing upon

him, from the history of spiritualism, the purity of the ballot, and the

McCormack reaper, down to certain expressions that immensely struck and

pleased him, which had to be entered in the diary as "unconscious poetry

of the Westerners,"--such phrases as "the fall" (of the leaf),

"morning-glories," "dancing like a breeze," "Daphnes" (instead of laurels),

and many more, which he hoped would be "permanently engrafted on the

mother-tongue." There were other entries to be made,--"customs of the

Westerners," their "descent," "taxation," "climate" (as affected by the

Great Lakes), "population in 1900," and so on. There were books, books,

books, to be read, referred to, ordered. There was even a little taxidermy

to be done, and the "native birds" to be first sought, then bought, then

prepared, and packed to be sent back to England. The others, if not quite

so busy, were anything but idle. Miss Noel walked her five miles a day.

She was out sketching for hours under her umbrella, no matter what the

weather was, and only said, "Thank you for your kind concern, but I am

quite equal to it," when Mrs. Ketchum, astonished to see a woman of her

own age enduring such fatigue and running such risks, undertook to

remonstrate with her. "One must get one's constitutional, you know, and

one must not mind a drop or two. There has been no really bad weather yet,

--nothing to keep one in-doors, at least." If she stayed in-doors, she and

Mrs. Sykes (when the latter was not scouring the country on foot or

horse-back) interested themselves in their plants, minerals, seeds,

drawings, the herbarium, the Wardian case, the diaries and letters and

fancy-work, the beautiful collection of sea-weed sent by Miss Marlow from

New England, and a dozen things besides. Mr. Heathcote, meanwhile, was

walking, and riding, and visiting, and, above all, photographing. He got a

small covered cart, into which he would put his photographic apparatus and

go the rounds of the country-side alone, getting his luncheon as he could,

and coming back late in the evening, flushed with heat and victory,

bringing amusing accounts of his experiences, a bouquet as of an

apothecary-shop, and "proofs" of "a lane,--quite an English-looking lane,"

"a dog on the chain," "rear view of an American public" (house), "Saint

Lieuk's Church" (five different aspects), "what the natives call an

'ash-hopper,'--came out beautifully," "children among the hay-cocks,--very

indistinct," "squatter's hut on the edge of a common," "Western American

farm-house," "negro dust-man," "village beauty," and many others. He was

much complimented upon them all by Mr. Ketchum, who enjoyed the whole

collection and made comments and suggestions of the most delightful kind.

Mr. Heathcote looked infinitely pleased and flattered when told by him

that they had "a cold, professional air," and asked for copies of some of

them, after which he was eclipsed behind his black cloth and instrument

for two days, had his room darkened to a Cimmerian pitch, worked very

diligently, and presented the fruits of his labors to his host with the

modest depreciation but secret delight of the artist, smiling indulgently

at Mr. Ramsay, with his "I say, old chappy, what an out-and-out swell you

are at it, to be sure! You must do the horses." Thus encouraged, Mr.

Heathcote did the horses, the house, the family grouped inside and outside,

Master Jared Ponsonby, Hannibal Hamlin, Master Bobo and Miss Blanche, the

poultry, and (aided by mirrors) himself in almost every dress and attitude

which it is possible for a man to assume. He must have spent a small

fortune in chemicals alone, and all his talk was of light and shadow,

background, draperies, foreground, plates, and proofs; every table was

strewn with photographs, finished and not finished, mounted or curled up

like paper crumpets.

Mr. Ramsay, too, had his little diversions, not precisely scientific, but

amusing. He was in and out of the stables all day long, and was loved by

every animal on the place. Such long-suffering and good nature Master

Ketchum had never seen, except in Fräulein Schmidt; and then the strength,

the resources, the conversation of his new friend enchanted the child, who

followed him about, perched on his shoulder, played games with him, and

had to be carried away from him struggling by his nurse. Mr. Ramsay had

other occupations: he rode, he fished, he cleaned his guns, he got over

leagues and leagues of ground, he killed several snakes and captured

scores of insects. He caught dozens of tree-frogs, for one thing, and shut

them all up together in the drawing-room coal-scuttle, where he peeped at

them from time to time, well satisfied. He played little tunes on his chin,

asked conundrums, showed Job a great many tricks at cards, and two French

puzzles (saying, "Those French beggars are awfully sharp at that kind of

thing, you know"); he played "God Save the Queen" with one finger on the

piano, held skeins of wool for the ladies, shut doors, got shawls, and

really need have done none of these arduous duties, for in looking so

handsome and so jolly from Monday morning until Saturday night he

contributed his quota toward the carrying on of society, and all beside

were works of supererogation. When these palled upon him a little, as was

shown by his picking up a book, he looked very unhappy for ten minutes,

and then, making a pass at his face with one of has beautiful hands, he

cried out, "No fellow can read badgered like this. There's a regular brute

of a fly that has been lighting on my nose every half-second since I sat

down," closed the book, smiled, and said, "I may as well call upon Mr.

Brown while I have time," and took himself off. This happened on the ninth

day after his arrival, and with it began a new era in his existence. He

not only went to Mr. Brown's that day, but the next, and the day after

that. In short, he had found an amusement best expressed in the French

equivalent _distraction_. He rode with Bijou, and reported to Mr.

Heathcote that she was "a clinker at her fences, and went at them as

straight as an English girl." He taught her a good deal about the

management of her reins and animal, and admitted that she was "a plucky

one." If she had only consented to get an English saddle (which she

declined to do, with one of her customary exaggerations, saying that she

"didn't want a thousand pommels"), to rise in that saddle, and to have the

tail of her horse cropped properly, he would have been quite happy. As it

was, he acknowledged that in her own fashion she was a most graceful and

fearless horsewoman, and approved of her accordingly. It soon struck him

that she did other things well. Used to the reserved and rather

constrained manner of most English girls, he found a great charm in her

bright gayety, her frank cordiality, the good-humored comradeship and

absence of stiffness, untainted by vulgarity. For, although Bijou was not

high-bred, distinguished, or clever, she was a girl of real refinement,

and he had the wit to see it. Her merry tongue and generous and

affectionate heart, neither chilled nor hardened yet by contact with the

world, were very attractive, and it is just possible that he felt the

influence of her piquantly-pretty face. At any rate, he had found a great

number of imperative reasons for going to Brown's, when one morning, as he

was opening the little wicket-gate that admitted him to their

croquet-field, he saw something that gave him an unpleasant shock. It was

a buggy in front of the door, in which sat Bijou, charmingly arrayed,

smiling upon a gentleman who had just helped her in and was only deterred

from taking the seat waiting for him by her calling out, "Stop, till I fix

my skirts and put up my parasol," the gentleman being his cousin, Mr.

Edward Plummer, _alias_ Drummond. The sight of Mr. Plummer enraged him.

Bijou's cheerful air did not improve matters, and for the first time he

felt irritated at her American speech and accent. "'Fix my skirts,'" he

quoted discontentedly, as he watched them drive off, and then, after a

moment's indecision, he stalked angrily up to the front door, pulled the

bell fiercely, and asked to see Mr. Brown. He was almost immediately

ushered into the library, where Mr. Brown was sitting.

"Good-morning, sir. I am glad to see you. I am sorry to say that Bijou is

out. She has gone driving with our guest: an English guest, by the way,

--Mr. Drummond. He came on with us from New York, and has been here ever

since, except the last two weeks, which he has spent in Chicago," said Mr.

Brown.

"That's what I've come about," blurted out Mr. Ramsay, the moment there

was a pause. "His name isn't Drummond at all: it is Plummer. And he isn't

fit to be a guest in any decent house, and I've come to tell you so and

have you give him the sack and put him to the door at once. Excuse me

meddling, but you have been very kind to me and received me most

hospitably, and I am not going to see you taken in by a rascal and a

blackguard."

Mr. Brown was shocked, but did not show it. He prided himself on being

very logical and dispassionate and judicial, and was privately convinced

that he would have greatly adorned the legal profession if Fate had been

kinder. Besides, Mr. Drummond was his guest and there by his invitation,

which to his mind was strong presumptive proof that Mr. Ramsay's charges

were without foundation. "Grave accusations these, Mr. Ramsay,--very grave

accusations. I trust you are making them upon some better grounds than

mere personal prejudice or idle rumor, if you expect me to believe them.

Not that I mean any discourtesy to you, sir, in saying this," he said, in

his roundest, most impressive tones.

"What do you mean? The fellow was sent to Coventry by his regiment and

forced to resign, his father has cut him off with a shillin', he can't

show his face in London, and he has been kicked out of his club for

keepin' too many aces up his sleeve. I should think that was grounds

enough for an accusation. Do you suppose I go about inventin' lies to take

away other people's characters?" said Mr. Ramsay excitedly.

"Do not exaggerate. Be calm; be reasonable," said Mr. Brown. "Observe, I

do not accuse you of wilful misrepresentation, but of misapprehension,

perhaps of prejudice. There is a difference. Note it, and do not take

offence, my young friend, too readily."

"I am not offended, but what I say is true, and I hope you will act upon

it, so that Miss Brown shall not go out ridin' round the country with

that--" began Mr. Ramsay, only to be interrupted by--

"No violence; no excitement. Let us look at the thing rationally," from

Mr. Brown. "Mr. Drummond is my guest,--my guest, remember; introduced to

me by one of the first men in New York; received everywhere. You are both

strangers to me. This is a matter of purely individual testimony," Mr.

Brown went on, feeling that he was growing exquisitely subtile, and

clothing himself in imaginary ermine as he spoke. "He may tell me that

_you_ are a rascal. In that event, how am I to know who is the honest man

and who the villain? Shall I believe you, or shall I believe him, in the

absence of documentary evidence and disinterested statement? As my guest,

he has, if anything, the prior claim to consideration; though I am far

from saying that whatever views you may advance will not have equal weight

with me,--as _views_, mark you."

"You can believe who you please and what you please," said Mr. Ramsay;

"but remember that I have given you warnin'. He may be your guest, but he

is my cousin, and I should think that I ought to know what I am talkin'

about. There is no necessity for me stayin' any longer."

He rose to go, but Mr. Brown stopped him by a gesture. "A cousin!" he

exclaimed. "Do not excite yourself; be calm. On the face of it, that would

seem conclusive; but appearances are notoriously deceitful. Will you

assure me on your honor that there is no motive, no family feud, at the

bottom of this? Cousins do not go about the world denouncing each

other--_as a rule_. Family pride, affection, a thousand things, prevent

them from making such things public; but still it is not impossible. I do

not say that it is _impossible_; only _improbable_,--very improbable. Give

me your word, though, that there is _no motive_.--we must always look for

a motive in these cases,--and I will promise to give the matter full and

impartial investigation."

"I'll do nothing of the sort. I will bid you good-morning," exclaimed

Mr. Ramsay, reaching out impetuously for his hat.

"You have meant well, perhaps. I am obliged to you, if such be the case. I

will bear what you have said in mind, and let you know my decision," said

Mr. Brown, delivering a verdict from the bench.

"Just as you please," replied Mr. Ramsay haughtily; and so they parted.

Left to himself, however, Mr. Brown ceased to be judicial, and became

practical. He recalled, as he sat there, a number of circumstances that

had not impressed him favorably in connection with his guest. Mr. Drummond

had borrowed a considerable sum of him, on the ground of delayed

remittances. Mr. Drummond had filled his pockets with his host's Havanas

in the most scandalous fashion, yet never had a cigar. Mr. Drummond had

done a number of ill-bred things that he had not liked,--such as ordering

the carriage to be got ready on his own responsibility, lending valuable

books without so much as asking permission, and the like. The longer Mr.

Brown thought of the late interview, the more uneasy he felt. The paper

had dropped from his hand, and he was still deep in his uncomfortable

meditations, when the door opened, and his daughter ran to him and threw

herself into his arms, crying hysterically, "Oh, popper, popper! Oh! oh!

oh!"

We will extricate the story of what had happened from the sobs and

interruptions to which Mr. Brown had to submit, and preface it with some

account of the relations between Bijou and Mr. Drummond-Plummer or

Plummer-Drummond.

They had met in New York the previous winter, where Mr. Drummond had

suddenly appeared, put up at a fashionable hotel, and, with no other

credentials than his handsome person, good manners, and bold assertions

that he was related to certain great people in England, had been accepted

in society with that beautiful faith and charity that believeth all things

an Englishman of supposed position may choose to say of himself, in spite

of much disastrous experience of foreign adventurers both painful and

ludicrous. Attracted by Bijou, he promptly satisfied himself of the

stability and reality of her father's fortune, and began to lay siege to

her hand: about her heart he gave himself small concern. Now, Bijou was a

Western belle, and was in the habit of receiving any amount of attention.

At seventeen a famous racer and a steam-boat had already been named for

her. The local newspapers chronicled her toilets and triumphs. Her little

sitting-room was a sentimental hall of Eblis, full of shapes with hearts

that were one burning coal, bright with the sacred flame. She had a large

album which she called her "him-book," because it contained nothing but

the photographs of her admirers. She had hats, and bats, and caps, and

whips, and cravats, and oars, and canes disposed about it tastefully,

souvenirs of various persons, times, and places, and talked of the

original owners in a way that made Ethel's blue eyes open their widest

when she came to be admitted there, that decorous young person not being

used, as she frankly said, to hearing "a person of the opposite sex"

called "a perfectly lovely fellow," and his nose pronounced "a dream,"

though not in the sense of its being broken or disjointed.

"Why, you wouldn't have me call _you_ a lovely fellow, would you?" said

Bijou laughingly, as she tripped about doing the honors of her den,

--showing locks of hair (of which she had almost enough to stuff a

sofa-cushion), dried bouquets of vast dimensions, little gifts she had

received, verses and valentines that she thought "perfectly splendid" or

"too utterly killing for anything," and bundle after bundle of letters,

--the adorers' letters, all of them, written from all parts of the country,

in every style. She read Ethel choice passages from them with great glee,

and gave spirited sketches of her correspondents; how she had met them at

Saratoga, Mt. Desert, "and pretty much every place;" how she had danced,

flirted, walked, driven, sailed, "crabbed," read, sung, talked with them,

apparently without either fear or reproach; and of their appearance, dress,

character, position, prospects,--a full, if not perfectly complete,

history of her relations with them that almost made Ethel's lower jaw drop

as she listened. There was no mention of mother, aunt, governess, or maid

throughout. Bijou had gone away from home with friends who had let her

amuse herself in her own fashion; and at home she was what De Tocqueville

has pronounced "the freest thing in the world,--an American girl in her

father's house." Yet it was a liberty that was worlds removed from

license. Undisciplined she was, impulsive, indulged beyond all European

conceptions, but, in spite of a good deal of innocent coquetry and vanity,

effervescing in some foolish ways very pardonable in a motherless girl,

and of which a great deal too much has been made in discussing American

girls, there was never one of any nation more pure-hearted and womanly.

Her worst deviations from rigidly conventional standards were better than

the best behavior of some very nice people, as Swift defines them,--"Nice

people: people who are always thinking of and looking out for nasty

things." Different training would have improved her, just as a hot-house

rose is more perfect than the wild one; but she, too, was pink-petalled,

had a heart of gold, and was full of lovely, fragrant qualities, like the

English variety near her.

"You correspond with twelve men! Good heavens!" exclaimed Ethel, when

these open secrets had been revealed to her. "Don't tell auntie of it, I

beg. She will--will misunderstand, I fear, and think it dreadful, and

perhaps prevent me being here so much. It is not at all in accord with

English ideas, you know, dear; and auntie is rather stricter than most,

even there."

"Not tell! Why not?" asked Bijou. "What is there to shock her? She must be

easily shocked. I have got nothing to be ashamed of; and I shall tell the

old dear to-morrow."

"Does your father know it?" said Ethel.

"Why, _of course_ he does," replied Bijou impatiently. "I generally read

him the letters, and he laughs fit to kill himself over some of them.

Popper don't care one bit. He says I am old enough to paddle my own canoe;

and so I am. And he knows I don't care a pin about any of them. It's great

fun until you get tired of it. I am tired of it now, rather. I used to

write to twenty; but it has dwindled down to twelve, and I'm going to drop

two of those, because they are in the army and are both stationed at the

same post. You see, it is too much trouble to write different letters to

each one, so I get up one bright, smart one that suits all around, and

copy it for them all, with some changes."

This speech almost stunned Ethel for a while. "But doesn't it vex them

very much to get such letters? What if they should find it out? And if you

don't at all care for them, why do it at all?"

"Why, for the _fun_ of the thing, goosie. Angry? No. They do the same

thing themselves. Will Piper sent Kate Price and me letters that were

exactly the same, word for word: we compared them. That is where I got the

idea. Splendid one, isn't it? I am just bent and determined on having

stacks of fun before I am married, because after that, you know, I shall

be laid on the shelf completely," said Bijou.

"But why should you be 'laid on the shelf'? I can't make it out. Your life

will be just beginning," said Ethel.

"Well, because what is so is _so_," replied Bijou, showing her some

patterns for slippers, watch-pockets, tobacco-pouches, and so on, that she

meant to work up for birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, "philopoenas,"

and other festive occasions, as presents for the adorers.

It is perhaps clearer now why Bijou laid no stress whatever on Mr.

Drummond's attentions, while she seemed to him to be receiving them with

marked favor. When, on their leaving New York, Mr. Brown had asked him to

go home with them and spend a month, he looked upon the prize as won.

Before going to Chicago he had shown this so plainly that Bijou had

snubbed him roundly,--a course so foreign to her amiable nature and

hospitable creed that on his return she had received him with a kindness

that had revived all his hopes,--or rather designs. He utterly

misunderstood it, and easily persuaded himself that he was practically

irresistible. The drive of that afternoon had been planned by him that he

might ask the fateful question. He had asked it, and, presumptuously

taking her answer for granted, had slipped an arm about her waist, when,

to his great surprise, he had found himself half ordered, half pushed out

of the buggy immediately, after which Bijou, transported by fury, had laid

the whip once smartly across his shoulders and driven away at a gallop,

leaving him standing in the middle of the road, an angry man.

She went home, as we have seen, and told her father, who was distinctly

excited on hearing it, ordered Mr. Drummond's effects to be packed and

sent to the hotel in Kalsing at once, forbade her ever taking another

drive with a stranger "the longest day she lived," and would certainly

have caned the offender with unparliamentary fervor, instead of being

"reasonable" and letting the affair drop, had he known where to find him.

What Mr. Drummond did was to walk into Kalsing and put up at a

boarding-house there, where he spent the evening glowering into vacancy

blackly enough, and showed his high breeding and respect for the other

boarders by taking off his shoes in the parlor and sitting with his

stockinged feet propped up on a chair in front of him while he gave

himself up to his reflections,--bitter thoughts of the past in which he

had been an English gentleman, desperate plans for his future as a

_chevalier d'industrie,_ fierce abuse of Americans in general and the

Browns in particular, culminating in a fixed resolve to leave "this

beastly hole" next day; which was happily carried out.

Mr. Ramsay, offended, held aloof for a little while; but, getting a note

from Mr. Brown couched in few words, and those to the effect that his

warning had been acted on and Mr. Drummond dismissed, he called next day

at the house, assured Mr. Brown with earnestness that his cousin was "a

precious rascal," gave some particulars of his shady career, and took up

the threads of his intimacy again, unvexed by any such ideas as that he

was at all responsible for or could be affected by his kinsman's

disreputable behavior. Mr. Brown concealed from him that he had lost some

money by Mr. Drummond. Bijou imagined that he must be "feeling dreadfully

about it," and took great pains not to say anything that could wound his

imaginary susceptibilities as the relative of a _mauvais sujet._ But the

simple truth was that, once assured that respectable people were not being

deluded or cheated by his cousin, Mr. Ramsay had no further sensitiveness

on the subject. The Browns kept what he had told them even from the

Ketchums, only to hear him announce in all assemblies that a cousin of his

was "goin' about over here,--an awful swindler and 'leg,'--and that the

best thing people could do would be to give him the widest sort of berth

until he got himself into the penitentiary, as he certainly would,--at

least it was quite on the cards," smiling in cheerful enjoyment of the

possibility. Entertainments were going on all the while in the

neighborhood, and he had ample opportunities of advertising the fact, all

of which he improved, while a puzzled audience knew not what to make of so

novel a situation, and were sorely put to it for suitable replies as they

stared at an Adonis in Poole-cut clothes who sat and looked alternately at

them and his patent-leather court pumps and gay silk socks while he

affably denounced his father's nephew and "hoped the blackguard was goin'

to New Orleans and would get the yellow fever there, which was beginnin'

to be had over from the Havana."

This last speech was made at a dinner-party which Mr. Ketchum's partner

Mr. Richardson had felt called upon to give in honor of the English guests,

and was almost the only amusing feature of the evening to Job. The

Richardsons' house was one of those in which everything is provided on

such occasions except amusement. When their invitation came, Job said to

his wife, "I wish we could get out of going; but we can't. I don't know

what is the matter with that house. It is one of the handsomest in the

city, elegantly furnished; they always have a crowd of people at their

entertainments, some of them delightful people to meet anywhere else, but

somehow there seems a kind of pall draped above the front door that drops

down behind you when you enter and never lifts till you leave. Mrs.

Richardson puts on all her war-paint and feathers and goes around all the

evening anxiously trying to make the thing go off, and it gets worse and

worse every moment, so dull and stupid that you can hardly keep awake, and

not quite quiet enough for a good nap. Richardson buys everything that is

to be had, and then sits around and looks as though he had a note to meet

in bank and no money to do it with. Altogether, it is about as lively as a

water-tank on the Pacific Railroad after the train has gone. But it won't

do to hurt their feelings: we have got to go."

So they did, and it was stiff and formal beyond even his expectation. The

dinner was interminably long, over-elaborate, and slowly served. They

were all sent in with the wrong people. The conversation all but died

again and again. Sir Robert was afflicted by a deaf man, who shrieked,

"Ha-ow?" and "What say?" at him with brief intervals all during the meal.

Mabel shrank into herself, and only ventured on a few trite remarks. Mr.

Ketchum's liveliness utterly evaporated after the first ten minutes. It

was quite ghastly, and the move back to the drawing-room was a most

blessed relief. Mrs. Sykes had made no effort to lighten the tedium of the

dinner, and no sooner found it at an end than she lolled back

indifferently on the sofa, and, picking up a book, coolly read it for more

than an hour, though twice interrupted by Mrs. Richardson, who vainly

tried to substitute polite conversation the first time, and offered a cup

of tea the second.

"English breakfast?" asked Mrs. Sykes loftily, raising her eyes for a

moment. "No; I am afraid not. It is green tea, I think."

"But do take some," replied Mrs. Richardson, "It is very nice indeed."

"No, thank you," said Mrs. Sykes very shortly, her eyes on her book.

"Just one cup. Let me make it for you?" suggested Mrs. Richardson.

"Not for a five-pound note would I drink the poisonous stuff. Say no more

about it," replied Mrs. Sykes, with delicate consideration, and turned

over a page.

"Do take some coffee, then, or chocolate," insisted Mrs. Richardson.

"Nothing of any sort or kind whatever," snapped Mrs. Sykes, turning away

decidedly, to get a better light on her book, apparently, but really to

get rid of her hostess.

Mr. Ketchum, fearing to show indecent exultation when the carriages were

announced, repressed the satisfaction that would have expressed itself in

gay speeches of farewell. A decorous exit was made; and as they rolled

away he gave a great sigh of relief, and exclaimed, "I haven't had as much

fun since I had the measles. Mussiful Powers! what an evening! I feel like

the boy whose mother gave him a good beating for his own sake. But all the

same I shall have a word to say to Mrs. Sykes tomorrow; and of course I

shall have to apologize for her behavior to Richardson."

"Most insolent, unpardonable conduct, I call it," said Sir Robert. "She's

an innately vulgar woman."

"Puts on an awful lot of side. I can't stand her. She gives me the jumps.

And she can tell a buster, too, when she likes: I have found that out,"

put in Mr. Ramsay.

"Well, I don't exactly hanker to be cast away on a desert island with her,

even supposing I was one of the royal dukes and had taken the precaution

of being introduced while we were tying on the life preservers, in case of

accidents," said Mr. Ketchum.

What he said to Mrs. Sykes next morning no one ever knew but the discreet

Mabel. Not much, probably, but that little was so much to the point that

it had a decided effect,--two of them, indeed, one interior, the other

external. It increased her respect for him, and it made her perfectly

civil to all his friends, as far as constitution and habit would allow.

"I cut her comb for her, and handled her without gloves," was his report

of the interview to his wife, who was amazed at his nerve.

When Sir Robert got a note addressed to "Lord Heathcote, Baronet,"

beginning "Dear Sir," and signed "Very respectfully your obedient servant,

" and read it aloud at the breakfast-table as "a most extraordinary

production," Mrs. Sykes had absolutely no comments to make. And when Ethel

opened her letters and found among them an invitation to take a

buggy-drive, commencing "Dear Miss," Mrs. Sykes still held her peace,--a

fact that was full of significance.

It was Miss Noel who said, "Really, Ettie dear, I can't have you driving

about furiously in a gig without a groom. But pray thank Mr.--what is the

name?--Price for being so kind as to propose it, meaning to give you

pleasure. He has been so obliging, too, as to procure tickets for us to

the play, and has kindly offered to escort us: I have a letter from him as

well. A most lovely day, this. There seems no end, really, to the fine

weather. Remind me to look at the thermometer after breakfast, before the

sun catches it, love. It must have been _quite_ two degrees hotter

yesterday than the day before; but I neglected to make the entry in my

journal, and so cannot be quite positive. Only fancy! Is it not annoying?

I am getting sadly forgetful about everything. And I so dislike guess-work

and conjecture in a record of the kind. I should like to see the

rose-trees at home this morning: the garden must be gay with flowers by

this,--though the last time I went pottering about it in my pattens there

was nothing out but the blackthorn."

Other entertainments followed closely upon the dinner, of which Mrs. Sykes

complained to Miss Noel, saying, "Why will they ask me out? Why can't they

leave me alone? Really, I shall not let any one know that I am here, if

anything ever brings me back to America,--which is most unlikely."

"There is nothing to prevent you staying at home if you do not wish to go

out," replied Miss Noel. "But do you not like it? I enjoy going to the

Browns'. Mr. Brown is a man of cultivated mind and Christian courtesy; I

like him very much; and the people one meets there are generally of

superior station and refined education. Why should you object to meeting

them?"

"American society may be nice some day,--that is, if it ever grows up.

There doesn't seem to be anybody in it now over twenty," grumbled Mrs.

Sykes.

One result of the parties was that Mr. Ketchum, going over to Mr. Brown's

one morning, found all the young people assembled there practising steps,

the "two-and-a-half," the "polka-glide," and other cheerful evolutions.

After watching Mr. Ramsay's efforts to do as Bijou did, for a moment, he

called out to her to know what she was doing to a British subject under

his protection, and, being shown by Bijou (skirts held up a little, the

prettiest feet imaginable, daintily shod, and the gliding, swaying,

pirouetting, galopading, graceful beyond expression), cried out, "Teaching

him to dance, are you? I thought he was practising heading off a calf in a

lane." This so exactly expressed the awkward desperate plunges to the

right and left which Mr. Ramsay was executing at the moment, that Mr.

Heathcote had another of his acute attacks of appreciation, and became

almost a subject for sal volatile and burnt feathers, Mr. Ramsay saying

good-naturedly, "What a fellow you are for chaffin', Ketchum! Just you

hook it out of this, will you, and let us get on with this? One and two

and a kick, you say, Miss Brown? I am such a duffer I can't get the kick."

"You do the one and two make one, and leave the kick to Miss Bijou," said

Mr. Ketchum suggestively. "Why aren't you gambolling like the playful

antelope, Heathcote?"

"I don't often gamble. I leave that to Ramsay, who is an all-fired

jewhillikens scratch at it, as you say over here," replied Mr.

Heathcote.

"You gamble a little differently, that is all. You have dropped a good

deal on loo first and last, for all your wisdom," retorted Mr. Ramsay

between his steps.

"Get out your 'Hand-Book of American Slang,' my boy,--two dollars a volume,

--and you will retrieve all your losses, I'll engage," said Mr. Ketchum

laughingly, as he walked away.

The dancing had been interrupted, however, and Bijou and Mr. Ramsay

retired to the bow-window to talk. "Odd that I can't get it, isn't it?"

said he. "I never was much of a dancin' man; and I ought to be, you know.

I am not a readin' man; and a man that is not a readin' man is nearly

always a dancin' man. The governor is a readin' man, and took a

double-first; but I am like my poor mother, who was dull." Thus launched,

he gave her a full account of his relatives and home with all his own

frankness, and she, listening with her heart as well as her ears, did not

know whether to smile or sigh: the phraseology of the recital and its

completeness amused her, but she also divined the loneliness of such a

boyhood. To her great embarrassment, the tears rose in her eyes in quick

sympathy when she came to hear of the way he was treated in his childish

maladies.

"Poor little fellow!" she said softly, and, as she was obliged to drop the

white, thickly-fringed lids and fall to pleating her handkerchief

industriously, she felt rather than saw that he was looking at her

narrowly.

There was a moment's silence, and then Mr. Ramsay began talking again.

"You are very happy here, aren't you? You wouldn't like to leave it and go

away to India, or Egypt, or--or--England, or anywhere?" said this

particularly deep young man, and, without waiting for any answer, except

such as was afforded by her rosy silence, went on: "American girls do have

lots of fun, I see that. I am afraid they are too fond of flirting,

though. English girls don't get much of a chance at that, as girls. They

don't amount to much until they are married and get their own way."

"Why, they don't flirt after they are _married_, do they?" said Bijou, in

a horrified tone, her ideal of post-matrimonial conduct being the exact

opposite of the ante-matrimonial.

"Oh, don't they, just!" said Mr. Ramsay cheerfully. "You see, as girls

they are heavily handicapped. They can't do anything they like, or go

anywhere; it's awfully slow for them, poor things. And so they naturally

look forward to the time when they will get their liberty as well as a

husband. But the competition must be something awful. A fellow that has

got a fine property or money is regularly hunted down; and even a poor

devil like me has to be monstrous careful. Cowrie, of the Carbineers, who

has got sixty thousand a year, says that he can't go to certain houses,

for fear they may have a clergyman secreted about the place and will get

him spliced to the ugliest daughter before he can escape. Awfully clever

chap, Cowrie,--a match for any mamma in England, I can tell you. He is not

going to marry any woman but the one he wishes to marry. No more am I.

That's why I can't marry. I've got no money. The governor picked out a

young woman from Liverpool for me last year,--a brewer's daughter, with

pots of it,--and wanted me to make up to her."

"Oh, he did! What did you do about it?" asked Bijou, in a low voice.

"Well, you see, just then I was most awfully hard up, and couldn't afford

to break with the governor; and so--"

"I'd be ashamed to say any more about it. Addressing a girl just for her

money!" interjected Bijou warmly, disappointed that he had not scorned the

proposition utterly.

"It didn't go that far. I thought it might be a good thing, you know. And

so I tried it,--spooning, you know," said he placidly.

"Oh, indeed!" commented Bijou sarcastically. "Very honorable of you, I am

sure, and delightful for the girl to have such a disinterested admirer.

How did it end?"

"How you do pick,a fellow up!" remonstrated Mr. Ramsay amiably. "It sounds

awfully conceited to say so, of course, but I think I could have carried

off the cup if I had liked. At least every one said she was hard hit. And

she wasn't long in the tooth, or very ugly, or vulgar, or anything; but

somehow I couldn't stand it. I got to hate her. She breathed so hard when

she danced, for one thing. Regular grampus. Upon my word, she almost blew

my gibus away from under my arm sometimes. Regular snorts. And then she

was always smilin'. And she talked an awful lot about Goethe and Schiller,

and those chaps. Altogether, I cried off, and told the governor I would

try the Colonies. And he told me that if I was such a consummate ass as to

let a good thing like that slip, I could take my little pittance and go to

the deuce as soon as ever I liked; and here I am. Some may think I acted

foolishly, but one's relatives are not always the best judges of what is

good for one, you know, though they may think they are actin' for one's

good; and what one wants to do is to do one's best in whatever position

one finds one's self in, you know, no matter what one--Hang it all! I know

what I want to say, but I can't say it. You understand, I fancy, without

me tryin' to explain."

Having tied himself up in this conversational bow-knot, Mr. Ramsay waited

to be extricated. His idea had been to convey in the most delicate and

roundabout way to Bijou that he was not the man to marry any woman for her

money, and that if he had seemed to like a certain person a good deal it

was not because she was the daughter of a rich man. To her, however, he

seemed to be posing as a conqueror of heiresses, indifferent to the pain

he might inflict upon any girl silly enough to be captivated by his good

looks and good manners,--a breaker of tacit engagements, and a wicked

worldling. So she rose very stiffly, and said that she neither knew nor

cared to know what he meant, and was obliged to leave him, and so went

away, and left him extremely puzzled and disconcerted by the behavior of

his charmer.

After this, the summer of Mr. Ramsay's discontent set in. There was

nothing that he could actually complain of in Bijou's treatment of him,

but it was plain that she had changed. She was vastly more polite than

before, but much less kind. Their intimacy seemed a thing of the past

century. It was Mr. Heathcote now who, partly from idleness, partly from a

desire to tease his friend, went constantly to the Browns', and showed

Bijou various attentions, which she accepted with very pronounced

satisfaction. It was with Miss Price now that Mr. Ramsay rode and walked

and talked,--Miss Price, whose free-and-easiness, vapid chatter,

artificiality, and sentimentalism contrasted unpleasantly with Bijou's

frankness and sincerity. By this course each confirmed the other in the

impression of untrustworthiness and flirtatiousness both had received, and

they ought to have been perfectly satisfied with this result. But,

considering how perfectly happy she was in Mr. Heathcote's society, it was

odd that Bijou grew paler and thinner every day. And if Miss Price was so

perfectly delightful, why did she send Mr. Ramsay home always as gloomy

and morose as any young man very well could be? With blundering honesty,

Mr. Ramsay once taxed Bijou with a preference for Mr. Heathcote, not

knowing that when a jealous lover accuses a girl of being fond of some

other man she never fails to encourage the idea, unless it is really true,

when she denies it with the utmost vehemence. Bijou, with much feminine

circumlocution, insinuated that he was devotedly attached to Miss Price,

to which he truthfully replied that he did not care "one rap" about her.

Women are born incredulous in such affairs. When sure of themselves, they

doubt the lover; when sure of the lover, they invariably doubt themselves.

And so the misunderstanding grew, and continued in mutual mistake and

suspicion, and no two people were ever more thoroughly and foolishly

miserable. Mr. Ketchum, when enlightened by his wife, could see that his

guest was in a bad way; and one day it chanced that they were left alone

in the library, where Job was most unromantically engaged in looking up

plans for a model pig-stye, while he incidentally refreshed himself with

his favorite confection, molasses candy.

"Man alive!" said he, after directing a keen glance at Mr. Ramsay's face,

"what is the matter? Take some of the Dentist's Friend, won't you?"

(pushing a plate toward him.) "I like it better than all the French stuff

that was ever made, and Mabel keeps me liberally supplied. You look

awfully down in the mouth, Ramsay, as though you'd enjoy howling like the

lone wolf on far Alaska's shore, if you were sure nobody was looking.

Suppose you tell me what has impaled you. Is it love, money, or

indigestion, old fellow?"

The words were light, but the tone hearty and kind; and, thus encouraged,

Mr. Ramsay laid bare his woes, Mr. Ketchum listening attentively, and

saying, when he had finished, "I know; I know. When I thought I had lost

Mabel once, I carried the universe around on a sore back all day, and then

my heart would get up on its hind legs and yelp half the night; and there

have been other times when I got caught in the machinery, and I know how

it hurts, I think of those times often. They grind a man down to the quick,

and send the chaff flying: they teach him valuable lessons. I remember I

started out in life with two violent prejudices,--one against Jews, and

the other against Roman Catholics. Well, in the greatest strait I have

ever known, the Christian that came to my relief was a Jew in a town of

seven thousand people; and when I had the smallpox a Sister of Charity

took me to the hospital and nursed me, when every one had deserted me and

left me to die or live without any meddling from them to bias me in my

decision. After that I said to myself, 'Job Ketchum, if the Lord can make

and stand as great a fool as you have been, he can make plenty of good

Jews and Roman Catholics, and if they have got his hall-mark they can do

without your valuable endorsement; and when smelting-day comes I reckon

you'll find that the Protestant quartz won't pan out _all_ the silver that

has been put in the earth's veins. You needn't go around blushing for

David and Thomas ?Kempis any longer, my son. Take a holiday.' My advice to

you, Ramsay, is to keep a stiff upper lip. Perhaps the buzz-saw has only

got your clothes, and you will be all right when you cut loose; but if it

has got _you_, all you can do is to stand and take it, and if you can

remember who set it going it will be better for you."

The last phrase Mr. Ketchum got out in a shamefaced way, as if very much

ashamed of it, as indeed he was; but Mr. Ramsay was the better for the

talk, and, though not "a readin' man," had easily understood the

illuminated characters in this page of human experience. He brightened

perceptibly from this date, and was able to take a healthy interest in

certain match-games of base-ball and la-crosse in neighboring cities,

which he attended with Mr. Ketchum and Sir Robert, who, besides these

diversions, had to visit the prisons and all the public schools, and to

gather a mass of information in regard to these two subjects, with

criminal and educational statistics, systems, theories, that had to be

examined, sifted, recorded in the diary with the pains, study, and

reverence for facts that characterized every entry made in it. Meanwhile,

quite an intimacy had sprung up between the ladies of the Ketchum and

Brown households, or rather the existing one soon embraced the

Englishwomen. Mrs. Sykes and Miss Noel were struck by a number of things

in the latter establishment.

"Do you suppose that _all_ American households are organized in this

extraordinary, miscellaneous way, so as to include, besides the head of

the house, his wife and children, all sorts of relatives, outsiders, and

strangers?" said Mrs. Sykes to Miss Noel. "Mrs. De Witt told me, quite as

a matter of course, that the sister of her husband's first wife lived with

them, though she was away when we were there. And look at the Ketchums and

the Browns. It is most remarkable. Why do they do it, I wonder? I must

really ask about it, how it ever came about. And on such an extraordinary

basis, too! Only fancy, that poor, thread-paper creature, Mr. Brown's

daughter, has married badly and come back to her father with a troop of

children; and she married in opposition to his wishes, and she hasn't a

farthing of her own; and yet she seems to have no proper sense of her

position whatever. She does nothing to make herself useful and get her

living, but sits up in her bedroom, rocking and sewing, all the day long.

She bids her father buy this and that for the children, just as though

they were not actually beggars, dependent upon him for shelter and every

mouthful. She meddles in household matters to any extent, giving the

servants orders, having fires made, and even the dinner-hour changed to

suit her convenience; and one would think she was mistress there. I wonder

she dares do it. Yet, so far from being sat upon or put in her place, I

heard Mr. Brown tell Bijou the other day, when some little disagreement

took place between them, that she must let her "poor sister" have

everything to suit herself, and do her best to make her happy and

contented and help her to forget all the trouble she had known, as far as

possible. Just as if spoiling her like that, and giving her false ideas of

her importance, could be a good plan. Not that it will last. She is a

pauper, and will be made to see that she is one, sooner or later. She has

nothing but what he gives her, I know, for I have asked her; but she would

not tell me why she separated from her husband. Americans are so absurdly

secretive and sensitive! Do you know, she was vexed by the inquiry? A

great mistake, as I told her, to get rid of him, unless he was a dangerous

brute: men are so useful, and 'grass-widows,' as they say here, are always

looked down upon. Did you ever know anything so idle as those Brown women?

The men here are very active and 'go-ahead,' as they call it, but the

women seem to do one of two things,--either they hold their hands

altogether and are a thousand times more idle than any queen or duchess,

or they work themselves to death, and are cooks, sempstresses, maids,

housemaids, nurses, governesses, ladies, and a dozen other things rolled

into one,--poor things! Thank heaven I am not an American lady."

"I see what you mean," said Miss Noel. "That dear, sweet girl Bijou has

had no practical training whatever. She was amazed that I should make

Ethel dye her white kid slippers (when they were soiled) for morning use;

and when she saw me getting up some dainty bits of old point that I do not

trust to Parsons, she asked me why I bothered with the old stuff and

didn't buy new. She has absolutely no idea of the value of money or of

household management. On the other hand, that little Mrs. Grey, their

friend, told me that she did all the sewing for her twelve children; and

Mrs. Grey has not taken a holiday of even a few weeks for twenty years. I

can't think how it is they don't break down altogether."

But it was the children of the Brown household that awakened the liveliest

surprise in the minds of these ladies,--an astonishment wholly free from

admiration or approval, for they were children of a type with which

Americans are sadly familiar, but which had never come under their notice

before. The little Graysons were utterly undisciplined, and got their own

way in everything. Their grandfather, aunt, mother, and nurses combined

were powerless to control them, and would give them anything but what they

most needed. They pervaded the whole house, and were the hub of it; they

ate at all hours, and of whatever they fancied. They had no regular hour

for going to bed, but fell asleep everywhere, and were removed with the

utmost precaution. Mrs. Sykes, going there, would find them jumping up and

down with muddy feet on the drawing-room sofas or playing on the new grand

piano with the poker. Miss Noel one day found Mr. Brown in a great state

of perturbation, calling out, "Helen! Jane! Bijou! Come here, quick! The

baby is bumping his head on the floor!" (The baby being three years old.)

"Don't get angry, darling. If you won't bump your head, grandpa will bring

you a wax doll from Kalsing to-morrow." Another day, baby's sister in

banging on the window-pane struck through the glass and cut her fist.

"Poor little dear! Poor childie! Let me bind it up quickly. Harry, love,

bid nurse fetch the arnica at once," exclaimed Miss Noel; but the patient

stamped and shrieked, and would not have her hand examined or doctored by

anybody, whereupon her admiring mother said, "Jenny has always been that

way. She has a great deal of character, Miss Noel."

"A very undisciplined one, I fear," replied that lady emphatically. She

could scarcely believe that she heard aright when, on asking this model

parent what her plans were for the summer, she said,--

"I am going to try Saratoga again. We were there last year, and I went

prepared to stay until the 1st of October. I liked it very much; it was

very gay and pleasant; but Harry got tired of it, and wouldn't stay after

the second week, so I packed up and went to Long Branch, which he has

always liked."

"Your brother, or uncle?" inquired Miss Noel, in perfect good faith.

"No, my little Harry," replied the placid mother.

The very appearance of the children, fragile, delicate-looking, nervous,

was in striking contrast to the solid, rosy, somewhat stolid English

children to whom she was accustomed. They were pretty, quite abnormally

intelligent she thought, and as attractive as such rearing would permit

them to become; but their habits and manners positively afflicted her. She

pined to put them to bed at seven o'clock, keep them four or five hours of

every day in the open air, give them simple, nourishing food,--in short,

inaugurate the wholesome nursery system of her own country. To see them

sitting down to table without saying their grace or putting on their

pinafores, and order of the servant soups full of condiments, veal, any or

all of eight vegetables, pickles, tarts, pudding, jelly, custard,

fruit-cake, bon-bons, strong coffee, cheese, almonds, raisins, figs, more

custard, raisins again, and more fruit-cake, all despatched in great haste,

with no attention to the proper use of napkin, knife, fork, or spoon, was

acutely disagreeable to her; and it was amusing to see her efforts to

insinuate, as it were, better things into their daily life. "Nice, clever

children," she would say,--"so delicate-featured, and so refined in

appearance, but, heavens! what a monstrous system of education!" She had

taken a fancy to Bijou from the first, and she soon noticed in her a great

many little evidences of weariness, discontent, unhappiness; also that she

was alternately very pale and depressed or flushed and animated. She took

the girl therefore under her motherly wing, lectured her a little in her

gentle way about some things, praised her in others, and was very kind to

her.

"My dear," she would say, "do you not eat entirely too many sweets,

bon-bons, and what not, and then go without proper food at the regular

meals?" Or it would be, "How do you occupy yourself, as a rule, dear

child? Do you district-visit, botanize, sketch, learn a language? What do

you do? You would enjoy a course of belles-lettres, and should take that.

And that head in crayons that you did at school was pleasantly executed:

why not study from life constantly?" Bijou had to confess that she did

nothing, and not even that industriously. "But, my dear, you are not an

Asiatic. You surely don't wish to be a doll, a plaything, self-indulgent,

helpless, leading a life of mere luxurious indulgence and artificiality?"

No, Bijou had no such wish; but what was the use of learning or doing

anything now as a girl? If she married, it would be different; but then

she would never, never marry. But Miss Noel insisted that an idle woman

was a miserable woman, married or single, and was brisk and cheerful and

kind, and devised a number of small employments for Bijou, whom she kept

with her a great deal, and so befriended her as effectually as Mr. Ketchum

had done Mr. Ramsay. Mrs. Sykes found fault with her once or twice, but

did not find her all meekness.

"Why do you talk of 'an elegant breeze'?" she said to her one day.

"For the same reason that you spoke of 'a beautiful roast' yesterday,"

retorted the young lady, who might be broken-hearted, but was certainly

not broken-spirited. "I know better, and I suppose you do, but we are both

careless."

Matters drifted along in this way until a certain morning spent by Mr.

Ramsay at the Browns',--eventful because a little thing happened which

convinced him that Bijou cared for him. He came home with a new pang

substituted for those he had been enduring for a lover's age. After dinner

he tramped off for a long walk alone, in the course of which it may fairly

be presumed that he decided what course to take, for early on the

following day he called especially, for the second time, upon Mr. Brown.

"I have come to tell you that I can't come here any more," he said,

holding his hat with his accustomed grace, and going in his

straightforward fashion immediately to the subject in his mind. "And I

wish to thank you for bein' so kind to me and receivin' me as you have

done, and to tell you why I am actin' in this way."

"Why, what's the matter? Going away? Isn't this rather sudden?" asked

Brown _p?_, all unsuspicious of what was to come.

"Oh, it isn't _that_! Though of course I shall be goin'. It is that I

can't marry. That is what it is. You should have been told of it before,

by rights, only I kept puttin' it off. You have a perfect right to blame

me for not sayin' so long ago, when you were good enough to admit me here

on an intimate footin'. It was a shabby, dishonorable thing of me, and I

hope you'll forgive it, rememberin' that it was not my intention to

deceive you," said Mr. Ramsay. "It wasn't, now, really."

"But, my dear fellow, of what are you accusing yourself? There must be

some mistake. What has that got to do with your visits here?" asked Mr.

Brown.

"Why, don't you see?--don't you object to me bein' thrown so much with

Miss Brown, under the circumstances?" stammered out Mr. Ramsay.

"Not the least in the world,--not the least in the world, I assure you.

Delighted to see you, I am sure, whenever you like to come," said Mr.

Brown, with hospitable warmth. "Why should I? There is no necessity for

your marrying anybody, that I can see. What put such a foolish idea in

your head?"

"But I thought you would think--she would think I thought--that is--as you

might say--"

A hearty laugh from Mr. Brown interrupted him: "Why, you seem to have

thought a good deal on the subject. The most extraordinary idea! Excuse my

saying so. This house is always full of young men dancing attendance on

Bijou, who is as popular a girl as there is; but I don't trouble _my_ head

about them, I can assure you. No, indeed. Half of them don't want to marry

Bijou, and she don't want to marry any of them that I know of. And I guess

I shall be told when the affair comes off, so that I can order the

wedding-cake. Why, they are just all young people together. It don't mean

anything. They just naturally like each other's society. They are amusing

themselves,--that's all; and quite right, too."

Mr. Ramsay had never conceived of such a philosophical parent or agreeable

state of affairs. He was very much embarrassed, and caught at a familiar

idea in his confusion. "That's what I thought you would think,--that I was

amusin' myself. And I wanted to tell you that I am not, you know. I have

far too much respect for Miss Brown to dream of doin' such a thing," he

said very eagerly.

"Oh, you mean at her expense? I understand now. Well, now, let me make

your mind perfectly easy on that score. Bijou can take care of herself as

well as any girl in America, and I never thought of such a thing. If you

are thinking of _her_, that's all right. If you are thinking of yourself,

of course that is another thing. She isn't thinking of marrying _you_. She

doesn't care anything about you in that way, I am certain. I should have

noticed it if she had been," said Mr. Brown, who labored under the usual

parental delusion as to his daughter's heart having a glass window through

which he could see all that went on there.

"I am tryin' to do what is best for both of us," said Mr. Ramsay honestly,

blushing profusely. "And I came to say good-by. And here is a little note

I have written Miss Brown. I have left it open, in case you wished to see

it."

"Not at all,--not at all. Bijou would blow me up sky-high if she caught me

reading it, I can tell you. I'll give it to her, certainly. I think you

are giving yourself unnecessary concern; but your scruples, though novel,

do you honor. If you think it best to give us up, you are, as far as you

are personally concerned, the best judge. Good-by. Send us a line to say

how you like the West. Good-by," said Mr. Brown, and smilingly accompanied

him to the front door.

Papa Brown gave his daughter the note, which ran as follows:

"MY DEAR MISS BROWN,--I am going away, and you have been so awfully kind

to me that I know you will excuse me writing to say how awfully grateful I

am to your family for receiving a stranger as they have done."

Here "I shall often think of you" was carefully scratched out, and "I

shall always remember it and the pleasant hours I have spent with them"

substituted.

"And now I have got to say a disagreeable word, which is good-by. I hope

you will have a fine hot summer and will think of me sometimes when you

are spooning tremendously at croquet,--as you know you do, though it isn't

fair. With best regards to all the members of your household, I am

"Faithfully yours,

"ARTHUR RAMSAY.

"P.S.--If I should drop into a good thing you will hear of it."

Mr. Ramsay had taken four hours to compose something that should not be

actionable or compromising, and yet that should convey some idea of the

state of his mind and feelings, and had turned out this masterpiece, which

Bijou read in bitterness of soul over and over again.

"Excuse me writing," "fine hot summer," "croquet," she quoted mentally.

"After all that has passed between us! If he had really cared for me, and

anything had separated us, he would have had the common honesty and

manliness to say so. No; he thinks me another Liverpool girl, 'hard hit.'

He is running away from _me_." At this cruel idea, so abhorrent to her

vanity, pride, affection, and general womanhood, the poor girl sank down

on her bed overwhelmed, and did not leave her room for three days,--or

rather eternities,--at the end of which time she met Mr. Ramsay by

accident on the high-road and cut him dead.

"I must pull myself together and get away out of this," said Mr. Ramsay to

Mr. Ketchum that evening. "I have bought of Albert Brown his ranch in

Colorado, near Taylorsville, and I leave in the morning."

"WHAT!" cried Mr. Ketchum. "Has he sold you that tumble-down claim on a

burnt prairie, miles from any wood or water? I know the place."

"I haven't examined the property; but he assures me it is a fine one. And,

anyway, it is settled, I am going. A thousand thanks for all your kindness,

Ketchum. An Englishman that I met in New York wants me to go huntin' with

him, and I shall join him at St. Louis and go on out from there."

"Why, I thought you had all promised to go to Niagara as my guests in a

few days. Do change your mind and stay, won't you?" urged Mr. Ketchum.

But Mr. Ramsay was obdurate, and took himself and a car-load of property

off in the direction of the setting sun by the mid-day train next morning.

"Ramsay, I want you to promise me one thing. If, owing to that skunk Brown,

you are disappointed out there, or don't get on, write or telegraph me,

and I'll stand by you to the tune of ten thousand or so. Good-by, old

fellow. Remember, I'm your _friend_," said generous Job, at the station.

And as he went home he stopped and presented Mr. Albert Brown with a piece

of his mind that any other man would only have taken in exchange for a

flogging, delivered.

"How very nice and kind of the dear duke to give Mr. Ramsay an invite to

join him!" said Mrs. Sykes, with emotion, at dinner that day.