THE SELECT SERIES
A SEMI-MONTHLY PUBLICATION,
Devoted to Good Reading in American Fiction.
SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, $6.00 PER YEAR. =No. 80.—MARCH 21, 1891.=
_Copyrighted, 1891, by Street & Smith._
_Entered at the Post-Office, New York, as Second-Class Matter._
Thrice Wedded,
BUT ONLY ONCE A WIFE.
BY
MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,
AUTHOR OF
“SIBYL’S INFLUENCE,” “THAT DOWDY,” “TRIXY,” “A TRUE ARISTOCRAT,” “LOST—A
PEARLE,” ETC.
NEW YORK:
STREET & SMITH, Publishers,
31 Rose Street.
DENMAN THOMPSON’S OLD HOMESTEAD.
STREET & SMITH’S SELECT SERIES No. 23.
Price, 25 Cents.
Some Opinions of the Press.
“As the probabilities are remote of the play ‘The Old Homestead’ being
seen anywhere but in large cities it is only fair that the story of the
piece should be printed. Like most stories written from plays it
contains a great deal which is not said or done on the boards, yet it is
no more verbose than such a story should be, and it gives some good
pictures of the scenes and people who for a year or more have been
delighting thousands nightly. Uncle Josh, Aunt Tildy, Old Cy Prime,
Reuben, the mythical Bill Jones, the sheriff and all the other
characters are here, beside some new ones. It is to be hoped that the
book will make a large sale, not only on its merits, but that other play
owners may feel encouraged to let their works be read by the many
thousands who cannot hope to see them on the stage.”—_N. Y. Herald_,
June 2d.
“Denman Thompson’s ‘The Old Homestead’ is a story of clouds and sunshine
alternating over a venerated home; of a grand old man, honest and blunt,
who loves his honor as he loves his life, yet suffers the agony of the
condemned in learning of the deplorable conduct of a wayward son; a
story of country life, love and jealousy, without an impure thought, and
with the healthy flavor of the fields in every chapter. It is founded on
Denman Thompson’s drama of ‘The Old Homestead.’”—_N. Y. Press_, May
26th.
“Messrs. Street & Smith, publishers of the _New York Weekly_, have
brought out in book-form the story of ‘The Old Homestead,’ the play
which, as produced by Mr. Denman Thompson, has met with such wondrous
success. It will probably have a great sale, thus justifying the
foresight of the publishers in giving the drama this permanent fiction
form.”—_N. Y. Morning Journal_, June 2d.
“The popularity of Denman Thompson’s play of ‘The Old Homestead’ has
encouraged Street & Smith, evidently with his permission, to publish a
good-sized novel with the same title, set in the same scenes and
including the same characters and more too. The book is a fair match for
the play in the simple good taste and real ability with which it is
written. The publishers are Street & Smith, and they have gotten the
volume up in cheap popular form.”—_N. Y. Graphic_, May 29.
“Denman Thompson’s play, ‘The Old Homestead,’ is familiar, at least by
reputation, to every play-goer in the country. Its truth to nature and
its simple pathos have been admirably preserved in this story, which is
founded upon it and follows its incidents closely. The requirements of
the stage make the action a little hurried at times, but the scenes
described are brought before the mind’s eye with remarkable vividness,
and the portrayal of life in the little New England town is almost
perfect. Those who have never seen the play can get an excellent idea of
what it is like from the book. Both are free from sentimentality and
sensation, and are remarkably healthy in tone.”—_Albany Express._
“Denman Thompson’s ‘Old Homestead’ has been put into story-form and is
issued by Street & Smith. The story will somewhat explain to those who
have not seen it the great popularity of the play.”—_Brooklyn Times_,
June 8th.
“The fame of Denman Thompson’s play, ‘Old Homestead,’ is world-wide.
Tens of thousands have enjoyed it, and frequently recall the pure,
lively pleasure they took in its representation. This is the story told
in narrative form as well as it was told on the stage, and will be a
treat to all, whether they have seen the play or not.”—_National
Tribune_, Washington, D. C.
“Here we have the shaded lanes, the dusty roads, the hilly pastures, the
peaked roofs, the school-house, and the familiar faces of dear old
Swanzey, and the story which, dramatized, has packed the largest theater
in New York, and has been a success everywhere because of its true and
sympathetic touches of nature. All the incidents which have held
audiences spell-bound are here recorded—the accusation of robbery
directed against the innocent boy, his shame, and leaving home; the dear
old Aunt Tilda, who has been courted for thirty years by the mendacious
Cy Prime, who has never had the courage to propose; the fall of the
country boy into the temptations of city life, and his recovery by the
good old man who braves the metropolis to find him. The story embodies
all that the play tells, and all that it suggests as well.”—_Kansas City
Journal_, May 27th.
THRICE WEDDED.
CHAPTER I.
“GO! AND MY WORST CURSES GO WITH YOU!”
In a retired street in one of the inland cities of Massachusetts stood a
neat and attractive little cottage of purest white, the dark green of
its blinds making it seem still whiter beneath the dazzling sunshine of
a lovely June morning.
Its little gem of a yard was surrounded by the daintiest of white
fences, and filled with the brightest and choicest of flowers, showing
that the owner was a person of taste and refinement.
The neatly graveled walk, from which every intruding blade of grass was
carefully plucked, led to a smooth, wide stepping-stone as clean and
spotless as a daily application of soap and water could make it.
The door stands invitingly open this bright morning, but we will not
enter just yet. An introduction first is necessary to its inmates.
The sound of wheels is heard, and down the street comes a light, elegant
buggy, drawn by a noble, spirited, but yet gentle horse of coal black.
On and on it comes, until, at a word from the driver, it stops directly
in front of the gate before the little cottage.
A boy of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age sprang lightly to the
ground, tied his horse, then, with a look of eager expectation upon his
face, walked quickly toward the open door.
He was a bright and active-appearing youth, with a full, round face,
whose frank, open expression won you at once. His eyes were a fine
hazel, large and full. His forehead, as he lifted his hat and ran his
fingers through the clustering rings of chestnut hair that crowned his
head, shone white and fair as polished marble, and was broad and high.
His nose was straight and rather thin for the rest of his face, while
his mouth was small but very pleasant in its expression, though there
were certain lines about in that indicated firmness and a will of his
own.
He was manly in form and bearing, and there was a look of conscious
pride upon his beaming face as he glanced complacently back at the
handsome equipage at the gate, while the silver tinkle of a bell gave
back an answering echo to his touch.
“Oh, mamma, Robbie has come at last.”
And a bright little elf sprang dancing into the hall, and instantly a
pair of chubby arms were around Robbie’s neck, and a hearty smack
testified to the warmth of his reception.
She was just the sweetest little bit of sunshine ever caught and
imprisoned in human form. A little round rosy face, all smiles and
dimples; a pair of laughing blue eyes that danced and sparkled every
minute in the day with fun and mischief. A pug nose and a rosebud mouth,
always ready to give and take the sweetest kisses, as she had already
proved. Her hair hung in curls around her plump cheeks, and was a sort
of yellowish brown—not at all red, reader, but the brightest and richest
auburn you ever saw.
Her figure was short and plump, while her little skipping fairy feet
seemed almost too tiny to hold up so much precious flesh and blood.
“Oh, Robbie!” she said, almost breathless with delight and anticipation.
“I thought you never, never, never would come; and mamma has coaxed and
scolded to get me from the window, watching for you. She says it’s so
unbecoming and unladylike to be so impatient; but I couldn’t help it,
it’s so long since I had a ride. How nice the old pony looks, doesn’t
he? and o-oh! you’ve had the buggy newly painted, too. What a grand time
we will have! Come, I can’t wait any longer.”
The little witch was about to spring down the step, when a voice from
within arrested her.
“Dora, Dora, wait, my child, you have no collar or gloves. Your hat is
on wrong side front, and your cape is not fastened; come here, my dear,
and let me fix you.”
A quiet, lady-like looking woman followed the pleasant voice, and
approached her lovely little daughter with the missing collar and
gloves.
“Good-morning, Robert,” she said, smiling. “Did you ever see such a
little Miss Wild-fire before?”
“Good-morning, auntie! I can’t blame Dora a mite, for I can hardly keep
still myself this bright day. I wish you could go with us.”
“Thank you, Robert, I fear Dora would hardly consent, for she thinks it
is a great thing for you to take her out alone. How is your father
to-day?”
“He is about as usual, only he does not seem to be in very good spirits.
I told him the other day he would be happier if he was a poor man and
had to work for a living. He would then have something besides himself
to think about.”
“What did he say to that?” asked Mrs. Dupont.
“Oh, he only laughed and said I was a queer boy, and that I might work
for my living if I wanted to.”
“Now, Dora,” said her mother, “you must hold still or I shall never be
able to dress you. Put on your gloves while I pin the collar. I fear
Robert will not wish to take you riding often if you don’t make a better
appearance. Ladies never go to ride without their gloves.”
“But, mamma, I ain’t a lady; I’m only a little girl, and I hate gloves
and starched things.”
The bright little face was very red just now from the effort of putting
on the troublesome gloves, and there was something very like a pout upon
the red lips.
“Well, never mind, dear,” returned her mother, kindly, “you will forget
all about them after you have started. Have a happy time, and come home
and tell me all about it. I hope you are a careful driver,” she added,
turning to Robert. “You won’t forget that Dora is my all now.”
“You may trust me, auntie, and then old Prince is so gentle there is no
fear. Come, Brightie, you are ready now, and we will start.”
He took Dora by the hand, and leading her to the buggy, put her
carefully in; then unfastening the horse he sprang lightly after her,
and with smiles and waving of hands they started, and were soon out of
sight.
Mrs. Dupont stood looking after them for a few minutes, a happy smile
upon her fine face. She was a widow, and this one pet lamb—this bright
and winsome Dora was her all in the world.
Her husband had been a physician, and had settled in S—— soon after
marriage, building up a good practice, which increased every year; until
he had earned this snug little home, which with a few thousands at
interest, made him feel quite easy as to the future. Besides this he had
his life insured for five thousand more, and so when he was suddenly
stricken with a malignant fever, and knew he could not live, he felt
that he should leave his dear ones in comfortable circumstances if not
in affluence. It was a heavy blow to Mrs. Dupont, for it left her almost
alone in the world. She was an orphan, with no relatives except a maiden
aunt, who, disapproving her union with the poor physician, had cast her
off forever, and threatened to leave her large fortune to some
charitable institution.
Maggie Alroyd, scorning the fortune, married her own true love, and was
happy with the penniless doctor. He had been dead now four years; having
died when Dora was eight years of age. But he was not forgotten. His
memory was still fondly cherished in their hearts, and not a day passed
that loving words did not testify to the strength and depth of their
affection for him.
Robert Ellerton, Jr., was the son of one of Dr. Dupont’s patients. A
rich and influential man, who was proud as Lucifer of his wealth, and
also his name, which he claimed was spotless. His wife had died when
Robert, their only child, was born, and he had never married again, his
household affairs being governed by a maiden sister. He had conceived a
sudden attachment for Dr. Dupont, who had saved Robert’s life—for Mr.
Ellerton declared that he did—when he had a severe attack of the croup.
There was nothing he would not do for the doctor after that; the
families immediately became intimate, while Robert and Dora grew to love
each other like brother and sister. Better, in fact, for Robert used to
tell her that some time she should be “his little bright-eyed wife.” And
he always called Mrs. Dupont “Auntie.”
After the doctor died the intimacy continued, until within the last year
or two Mr. Ellerton had suddenly become cold and distant, though he
still allowed Robert and Dora to visit each other. Whenever questioned
why he did not visit them, his reply invariably was that his health was
failing and he did not go out much. Indeed, it seemed to be, for he grew
thin, pale, sullen, and cross to everybody about him.
Even Robert began to fear him and keep out of his way. But in his secret
heart he worshiped his bright and handsome boy, and planned his future
course, building wondrous castles in the air for him.
He was beginning to think that it was about time to put a stop to
“Robert’s foolish fancy for that girl Dora,” for they could not always
expect to keep it up. His son would be rich, and would move in very
different circles from the doctor’s daughter, who was comparatively
poor.
How well he succeeded the future alone will show!
The youthful pair, all unconscious of these plots against their peace,
and also of the very queer act in life’s drama which they were to play
that bright June day, were riding briskly along the smooth, wide road
that led into the country, enjoying to the uttermost the green fields,
sparkling brooks, and gay flowers, with faces as bright and smiling as
their own happy, joyous hearts could make them.
“Where are we going, Robbie?” asked Dora, suddenly remembering that she
did not know.
“I thought we’d ride out to N—— and look at Squire Moulton’s new
statuary. I heard he had just received some, and that it’s the finest
collection in the country. I have a nice little lunch in a basket here,
and after we’ve seen all we want to, we’ll go down by the lake and eat
it.”
“Oh, how nice!” said Dora, clapping her hands. “Is it that great, big
house with the beautiful grounds, where we went to the picnic last
summer?”
“Yes; only you remember I didn’t go. Father doesn’t like the squire very
much,” his face clouding for an instant.
“What is the reason he does not like him?” asked Dora, inquisitively.
“I don’t know, I’m sure, only he was very cross last year when I asked
if I might go to the squire’s picnic, and I thought he swore about him.”
“I don’t care,” said Dora hotly. “I think he’s a real nice man to give
all the children a picnic, and we had a splendid time. I shouldn’t think
he’d let you go to-day, if he wouldn’t then.”
“He didn’t know where I was going to-day. I asked if I might take old
Prince, and he said yes; but I don’t think there would be any harm in
going to see the statuary,” replied Robert, though the hot blood rushed
to his face, as if he felt half guilty.
“I don’t think there is any harm, either; but, oh, Robbie, look at that
squirrel there!—there he goes, right through the wall.”
“Yes, and there goes its mate. Now they’ve both gone into that hole in
that tree.”
“Yes; how cunning they were! I wish you and I were squirrels, with
nothing else to do but run around in the sunshine all day, and eat nuts;
it must be real fun,” glancing back wistfully toward the place where the
squirrels had disappeared.
“Oh, no, Dora, you don’t, either; you forget that if we were squirrels
we could not be married, and, you know that some day you are to be my
little wife,” replied Robert, looking roguishly at her.
“Yes, I could be your wife just the same; for don’t you suppose one of
those squirrels was the other’s wife? And then we shouldn’t have to
work. I hate to wash dishes, and dust, and——”
“Well, Dora,” interrupted Robert, “you won’t have to work when you marry
me, for I shall have plenty of money, and you can have servants to do
the work, and all you’ll have to do will be to dress up in pretty
clothes and trinkets, and play all the time, if you want to.”
“Oh, that will be so nice, Robbie!” exclaimed Dora, heaving a sigh of
relief at the pleasing prospect of not having to work. “I wish I were
your little wife now.”
“Do you?” he asked, a bright look coming into his face. “Well, I’ll tell
you what we will do. We will go and be married before we go home, then I
can take you to mother, for she will be my mother too, then. Will you,
Brightie?”
“Yes, indeed, we will,” replied Dora. “Then my name will be Dora
Ellerton, won’t it? I think it’s a real pretty name, too. But who will
marry us, Robbie?”
“I don’t know. I guess Squire Moulton will; he’s justice, or something.
Any way, I’ll ask him. Come, get up, old Prince, for we are going to be
married.”
He touched the horse lightly with the whip, and these two children, so
full of their fun and mischief, laughed, chatted, and planned for the
future, little dreaming of the sorrow and misery they were about to
entail upon themselves.
At length they rode up the broad drive-way, and stopped before the
squire’s elegant country seat.
He was not in, the man said, who opened the door for them, but guessed
they would find him somewhere about the grounds.
“Well, no matter,” said Robert, who was beginning to feel a little
embarrassed with his strange errand. “We will go and find him.”
And taking Dora by the hand, they strolled down one of the beautiful
walks until they came to a rustic arbor.
On looking within they discovered a little bent man of about fifty, with
sharp black eyes and grizzly hair.
He looked up crossly as they entered, and demanded what they wanted, in
a tone that made Dora shrink closer to Robert’s side.
“Are you Squire Moulton, sir?” asked Robert, respectfully.
“Yes, I’m Squire Moulton. What is it?” he replied sarcastically
mimicking the boy’s manner.
“We’ve come to be married; that’s what we want,” said Dora, smartly, at
the same time snapping her large eyes angrily at him.
“Come to be married, indeed! Ha! ha! ha!”
The little gray-headed old man went off into a paroxysm of laughter that
made the echoes ring all over the grounds, while his evil black eyes
glowed with the intensity of his merriment.
“And pray,” he continued, when he could find breath to speak, and
looking amusedly at the youthful pair before him, “who are you, and what
may be the names of the parties who wish to assume the hymeneal yoke?”
And he laughed again.
“My name is Dora Dupont, and Robbie’s is Robert Ellerton, and you
needn’t laugh, either, for we’ve been engaged this long time.”
There was a sudden change in the man’s manner, and he repeated, with a
dark scowl, looking first at one, then the other.
“Been engaged this long time, have you?”
“Yes, we have, and if you won’t marry us, we can go to some one else.
Robbie is rich, and I guess he can pay for it, so you needn’t be afraid
about that.”
The indignant little lady’s face was of a crimson hue, and her blue eyes
snapped fire, while she enforced her speech with a stamp of her tiny
foot, as she stood erect and defiant before him.
They made a strange picture, and one that each remembered in the long,
dreary years that followed. That gray old man, with his evil face, and
wicked eyes, sitting there, looking so intently at the two children
before him. Robert, with his fine, manly face, glowing with excitement
and exercise, a smile wreathing his full lips at Dora’s anger, while at
the same time there was a half perplexed look in his eyes at the old
man’s words and manner. He was holding Dora’s hand in a protecting sort
of way, while she stood all flushed and indignant, and half ready to cry
at the bare idea of being made fun of, her hair tossed and flying with
every motion of her quivering little form.
Yes, it was an interesting and striking picture beneath that rustic
arbor, with the waving trees, the bright sunshine, and beautiful
flowers, for a background, interspersed here and there with the gleaming
white figures of statuary, and an occasional glimpse of the silvery
waters of a miniature lake, as the waving branches of the trees were
parted by a gentle breeze.
As Dora mentioned the name of Robert Ellerton, a sudden change came over
the squire’s wrinkled face.
He became ashy pale, his lips were clenched beneath his teeth until they
sank deep into the flesh, and his coal-black eyes became almost red with
the fierce blaze of passion that seemed to stir him.
His frame quivered, and he glanced at the youthful lovers in a way that
frightened Dora, who pulled Robert by the sleeve, and whispered that she
was afraid, and wanted to go home.
Robert stood silent and spell-bound, at the sudden and almost terrifying
change in the squire’s manner, staring at him with wonder-wide eyes, and
gaping mouth.
“Robert Ellerton!” at length almost gasped the man. “And is your
father’s name Robert Ellerton, too, young man?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the boy, still regarding him with surprise.
“And your mother—tell me quick,” he continued, hastily, and almost
sternly.
“My mother is dead, sir. She died when I was born, and Aunt Nannie has
always taken care of me.”
“Dead! Oh, Heaven, dead! Jessie dead!” muttered the old man, pressing
his hand to his side, and staggering back upon the seat from which he
had just arisen.
Great beads of perspiration stood upon his brow, and his hands shook as
if with palsy, as he took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped
them off.
“Oh, Jessie,” he wailed, “thou wert lost to me before, but I did not
think that thou hadst gone so long to the regions of the unknown.
“Say, boy,” he added, and he clutched Robert almost fiercely by the arm,
“was your father kind to her? Did she love him?”
“Of course he was kind to her—of course she loved him,” replied Robert,
indignantly, but wondering still more at the man’s strange behavior.
“Come, Dora,” he added, “we will go home; we won’t stay here any
longer.”
He again took Dora’s hand, which he had dropped in his astonishment, and
started to leave the place.
“Stay,” said Squire Moulton, quickly, and a wicked expression swept away
the agony that had been on his white face a moment before, while the
devilish look came back to his evil eyes, though he tried to control it,
and render his manner pleasant and affable.
“Stay, my young friends, you shall have your wish. I will marry you. I
used to know your mother, young man, and hearing that she was dead took
me by surprise. Yes, I will marry you, certainly,” he continued,
gleefully rubbing his hands together; “only tell me first who this young
lady is. Is her papa rich like your father?”
“No, sir,” replied Dora, promptly, her anger vanishing at the squire’s
pleasant manner. “Poor papa is dead; he was a doctor; and my name is
Dora, and mamma lives in a little cottage; but that is no matter, for
Robbie will be rich, so it doesn’t make any difference.”
“No, no, certainly not, my little miss,” and he laughed disagreeably
again.
“You stay here a few minutes while I go and make out a certificate—for,
luckily, I happen to be clerk as well as justice—and then I’ll come back
and perform the ceremony, and you shall be truly Mrs. Robert Ellerton
before you go home.”
So saying the squire strode with hasty steps toward his elegant mansion,
where, once within his library, he gave free vent to his pent-up
feelings.
With clenched hands and wrinkled brow he paced back and forth the
spacious length of that great room, cursing, bitterly cursing, and
muttering to himself:
“Oh, Robert Ellerton,” he said, “I have you now; I can now pay you twice
told for all my weary years of woe and anguish. You shall moan and weep,
and gnash your teeth, even as I have done. Your false pride shall have a
blow from which it will never recover. I remember you too well to know
how it would gall you to have your son marry a poor girl, and under such
circumstances, too. And he—he too, will chafe in the future at the chain
that binds him. I know how you have built proud castles in the air for
him, even as you used to for yourself, but they shall all tumble about
your ears in confusion. It is in my power to crush you now, and, curse
you, I will do it! Oh, Jessie, my poor blossom, had you but given
yourself to me, how bright would I have made your life! I would have
held you close—close to this beating heart, and it should have given you
life. My life has been, and is, like the dregs of the wine-cup, sour and
bitter, but you could have made it sweet and fragrant as burning
incense. But now there is nothing left but revenge, and—I will take it!
Oh, how I hate you, blighter of my happiness! I curse you! and I will
crush you and yours if I can.”
It was a fearful passion that moved him. One moment of intense hatred
and anger toward one whom he imagined had wrecked his life. The next
full of tenderness and sorrow for the one loved and lost sweetness of
his existence. It was a long pent-up agony flowing afresh over his soul,
a wound long since healed and scarred over now torn rudely open, and
pouring forth his inmost heart’s blood. He tore his hair, he beat his
breast, as he strode wildly back and forth, until at last, utterly
overcome, he sank back exhausted upon a chair.
Several moments passed, when with a mighty effort he conquered his
emotion in a measure, and rising, he went to his secretary, took out
some papers, and sitting down, commenced writing. He soon finished,
folded the paper, and then went back to the arbor, where the children,
having forgotten all unpleasantness, were chatting merrily.
They became silent as he approached, and looked uneasy; but he entered
with a pleasant smile, told them to rise and take hold of each other’s
right hand, and going hastily through the marriage service, he soon
pronounced them man and wife.
His own face paled as he looked into those so earnestly raised to his,
and his heart half sank within him as the thought of what he had done
rushed over him. But he quickly cast it from him, and giving the folded
paper to Dora, he told her, with a sinister smile, that she must never
part with it, but treasure it sacredly, or she could not prove that she
was Robert’s wife.
She took it, with a feeling half of awe, half of shame, and thrust it
quickly within the depths of her pocket.
How could that bold, bad man stand up so calmly and perform such a
mockery in the sight of Heaven? How could he so deliberately plan to
blight and crush two innocent hearts and lives—two babes, as it were,
who had never had a thought or wish of evil for any of God’s creatures?
He little knew or realized to what extent his threat would be carried.
Perhaps, could he have looked into the future, even he would have shrunk
from the depth of woe to which his curses consigned them.
After he had performed this diabolical act, he instantly became the most
agreeable of hosts, taking them all over his grounds, showing them the
statuary, and explaining the different subjects to them; afterward
giving them a sail upon the miniature lake in the daintiest of dainty
boats. He then invited them into the grand old house, where, after
looking a half-hour or so at some magnificent paintings, he ushered them
into a pleasant little room, where they found a tempting little treat of
strawberries and cream and cake.
They made merry here for a while, and then, as their buggy was ordered
to the door, they bade their host a pleasant good-by, thanking him for
his kindness to them; took their seats, and drove merrily away.
Squire Moulton watched them until they disappeared from view; then,
raising one clenched hand, he shook it threateningly, and hissed through
his shut teeth:
“Go, you young fools! and my worst curses go with you!”
He then went within, slamming the door violently after him. As he did
so, two men arose from behind some bushes and shrubs which grew beside
the arbor where the strange marriage had taken place, and stealthily
made their way out of the grounds, whispering as they went.