MARIAN.
Great was the consternation caused by the arrest of a gentleman so high
in social rank and scholastic and theological reputation as the Rev.
Thurston Willcoxen, and upon a charge, too, so awful as that for which
he stood committed! It was the one all-absorbing subject of thought and
conversation. People neglected their business, forgetting to work, to
bargain, buy or sell. Village shopkeepers, instead of vamping their
wares, leaned eagerly over their counters, and with great dilated eyes
and dogmatical forefingers, discussed with customers the merits or
demerits of the great case. Village mechanics, occupied solely with the
subject of the pastor's guilt or innocence, disappointed with impunity
customers who were themselves too deeply interested and too highly
excited by the same subject, to remember, far less to rebuke them, for
unfulfilled engagements. Even women totally neglected, or badly
fulfilled, their domestic avocations; for who in the parish could sit
down quietly to the construction of a garment or a pudding while their
beloved pastor, the "all praised" Thurston Willcoxen, lay in prison
awaiting his trial for a capital crime?
As usual in such cases, there was very little cool reasoning, and very
much passionate declamation. The first astonishment had given place to
conjecture, which yielded in turn to dogmatic judgments--acquiescing or
condemning, as the self-constituted judges happened to be favorable or
adverse to the cause of the minister.
When the first Sabbath after the arrest came, and the church was closed
because the pulpit was unoccupied, the dispersed congregation, haunted
by the vision of the absent pastor in his cell, discussed the matter
anew, and differed and disputed, and fell out worse than ever. Parties
formed for and against the minister, and party feuds raged high.
Upon the second Sabbath--being the day before the county court should
sit--a substitute filled the pulpit of Mr. Willcoxen, and his
congregation reassembled to hear an edifying discourse from the text: "I
myself have seen the ungodly in great power, and flourishing like a
green bay-tree. I went by, and lo! he was gone; I sought him, but his
place was nowhere to be found."
This sermon bore rather hard (by pointed allusions) upon the great
elevation and sudden downfall of the celebrated minister, and, in
consequence, delighted one portion of the audience and enraged the
other. The last-mentioned charged the new preacher with envy, hatred and
malice, and all uncharitableness, besides the wish to rise on the ruin
of his unfortunate predecessor, and they went home in high indignation,
resolved not to set foot within the parish church again until the
honorable acquittal of their own beloved pastor should put all his
enemies, persecutors and slanderers to shame.
The excitement spread and gained force and fire with space. The press
took it up, and went to war as the people had done. And as far as the
name of Thurston Willcoxen had been wafted by the breath of fame, it was
now blown by the "Blatant Beast." Ay, and farther, too! for those who
had never even heard of his great talents, his learning, his eloquence,
his zeal and his charity, were made familiar with his imputed crime and
shuddered while they denounced. And this was natural and well, so far as
it went to prove that great excellence is so much less rare than great
evil, as to excite less attention. The news of this signal event spread
like wildfire all over the country, from Maine to Louisiana, and from
Missouri to Florida, producing everywhere great excitement, but falling
in three places with the crushing force of a thunderbolt.
First by Marian's fireside.
In a private parlor of a quiet hotel, in one of the Eastern cities, sat
the lady, now nearly thirty years of age, yet still in the bloom of her
womanly beauty.
She had lately arrived from Europe, charged with one of those benevolent
missions which it was the business and the consolation of her life to
fulfill.
It was late in the afternoon, and the low descending sun threw its
golden gleam across the round table at which she sat, busily engaged
with reading reports, making notes, and writing letters connected with
the affair upon which she had come.
Seven years had not changed Marian much--a little less vivid, perhaps,
the bloom on cheeks and lips, a shade paler the angel brow, a shade
darker the rich and lustrous auburn tresses, softer and calmer, fuller
of thought and love the clear blue eyes--sweeter her tones, and gentler
all her motions--that was all. Her dress was insignificant in material,
make and color, yet the wearer unconsciously imparted a classic and
regal grace to every fold and fall of the drapery. No splendor of
apparel could have given such effect to her individual beauty as this
quiet costume; I would I were an artist that I might reproduce her image
as she was--the glorious face and head, the queenly form, in its plain
but graceful robe of I know not what--gray serge, perhaps.
Her whole presence--her countenance, manner and tone revealed the
richness, strength and serenity of a faithful, loving, self-denying,
God-reliant soul--of one who could recall the past, endure the present,
and anticipate the future without regret, complaint or fear.
Sometimes the lady's soft eyes would lift themselves from her work to
rest with tenderness upon the form of a little child, so small and still
that you would not have noticed her presence but in following the lady's
loving glance. She sat in a tiny rocking chair, nursing a little white
rabbit on her lap. She was not a beautiful child--she was too diminutive
and pale, with hazy blue eyes and faded yellow hair; yet her little face
was so demure and sweet, so meek and loving, that it would haunt and
soften you more than that of a beautiful child could. The child had been
orphaned from her birth, and when but a few days old had been received
into the "Children's Home."
Marian never had a favorite among her children, but this little waif was
so completely orphaned, so desolate and destitute, and withal so puny,
fragile and lifeless that Marian took her to her own heart day and
night, imparting from her own fine vital temperament the warmth and
vigor that nourished the perishing little human blossom to life and
health. If ever a mother's heart lived in a maiden's bosom, it was in
Marian's. As she had cherished Miriam, she now cherished Angel, and she
was as fondly loved by the one as she had been by the other. And so for
five years past Angel had been Marian's inseparable companion. She sat
with her little lesson, or her sewing, or her pet rabbit, at Marian's
feet while she worked; held her hand when she walked out, sat by her
side at the table or in the carriage, and slept nestled in her arms at
night. She was the one earthly blossom that bloomed in Marian's solitary
path.
Angel now sat with her rabbit on her knees, waiting demurely till Marian
should have time to notice her.
And the lady still worked on, stopping once in a while to smile upon the
child. There was a file of the evening papers lying near at hand upon
the table where she wrote, but Marian had not yet had time to look at
them. Soon, however, she had occasion to refer to one of them for the
names of the members of the Committee on Public Lands. In casting her
eyes over the paper, her glance suddenly lighted upon a paragraph that
sent all the blood from her cheeks to her heart. She dropped the paper,
sank back in her chair, and covered her blanched face with both hands,
and strove for self-control.
Angel softly put down the rabbit and gently stole to her side and looked
up with her little face full of wondering sympathy.
Presently Marian began passing her hands slowly over her forehead, with
a sort of unconscious self-mesmerism, and then she dropped them wearily
upon her lap, and Angel saw how pallid was her face, how ashen and
tremulous her lip, how quivering her hands. But after a few seconds
Marian stooped and picked the paper up and read the long,
wonder-mongering affair, in which all that had been and all that had
seemed, as well as many things could neither be nor seem, were related
at length, or conjectured, or suggested. It began by announcing the
arrest of the Rev. Thurston Willcoxen upon the charge of murder, and
then went back to the beginning and related the whole story, from the
first disappearance of Marian Mayfield to the late discoveries that had
led to the apprehension of the supposed murderer, with many additions
and improvements gathered in the rolling of the ball of falsehood. Among
the rest, that the body of the unhappy young lady had been washed ashore
several miles below the scene of her dreadful fate, and had been
charitably interred by some poor fisherman. The article concluded by
describing the calm demeanor of the accused and the contemptuous manner
in which he treated a charge so grave, scorning even to deny it.
"Oh, I do not wonder at the horror and consternation this matter has
caused. When the deed was attempted, more than the intended death wound
didn't overcome me! And nothing, nothing in the universe but the
evidence of my own senses could have convinced me of his purposed guilt!
And still I cannot realize it! He must have been insane! But he treats
the discovery of his intended and supposed crime with scorn and
contempt! Alas! alas! is this the end of years of suffering and
probation? Is this the fruit of that long remorse, from which I had
hoped so much for his redemption--a remorse without repentance, and
barren of reformation! Yet I must save him."
She arose and rang the bell, and gave orders to have two seats secured
for her in the coach that would leave in the morning for Baltimore. And
then she began to walk up and down the floor, to try and walk off the
excitement that was fast gaining upon her.
Before this night and this discovery, not for the world would Marian
have made her existence known to him, far less would she have sought his
presence. Nay, deeming such a meeting improper as it was impossible, her
mind had never contemplated it for an instant. She had watched his
course, sent anonymous donations to his charities, hoped much from his
repentance and good works, but never hoped in any regard to herself. But
now it was absolutely necessary that she should make her existence known
to him. She would go to him! She must save him! She should see him, and
speak to him--him whom she had never hoped to meet again in life! She
would see him again in three days! The thought was too exciting even for
her strong heart and frame and calm, self-governing nature! And in
defiance of reason and of will, her long-buried youthful love, her pure,
earnest, single-hearted love, burst its secret sepulchre, and rejoiced
through all her nature. The darkness of the past was, for the time,
forgotten. Memory recalled no picture of unkindness, injustice or
inconstancy. Even the scene upon the beach was faded, gone, lost! But
the light of the past glowed around her--their seaside strolls and
woodland wanderings--
"The still, green places where they met,
The moonlit branches dewy wet,
The greeting and the parting word,
The smile, the embrace, the tone that made
An Eden of the forest shade--"
kindling a pure rapture from memory, and a wild longing from hope, that
her full heart could scarce contain.
But soon came on another current of thought and feeling opposed to the
first--doubt and fear of the meeting. For herself she felt that she
could forget all the sorrows of the past; aye! and with fervent glowing
soul, and flushed cheeks, and tearful eyes, and clasped hands, she
adored the Father in Heaven that He had put no limit to forgiveness--no!
in that blessed path of light all space was open to the human will, and
the heart might forgive infinitely--and to its own measureless extent.
But how would Thurston meet her? He had suffered such tortures from
remorse that doubtless he would rejoice "with exceeding great joy" to
find that the deed attempted in some fit of madness had really not been
effected. But his sufferings had sprung from remorse of conscience, not
from remorse of love. No! except as his deliverer, he would probably not
be pleased to see her. As soon as this thought had seized her mind,
then, indeed, all the bitterer scenes in the past started up to life,
and broke down the defenses reared by love, and faith, and hope, and let
in the tide of anguish and despair that rolled over her soul, shaking it
as it had not been shaken for many years. And her head fell upon her
bosom, and her hands were clasped convulsively, as she walked up and
down the floor--striving with herself--striving to subdue the rebel
passions of her heart--striving to attain her wonted calmness, and
strength, and self-possession, and at last praying earnestly: "Oh,
Father! the rains descend, and the floods come, and the winds blow and
beat upon my soul; let not its strength fall as if built upon the sand."
And so she walked up and down, striving and praying; nor was the
struggle in vain--once more she "conquered a peace" in her own bosom.
She turned her eyes upon little Angel. The infant was drooping over one
arm of her rocking-chair like a fading lily, but her soft, hazy eyes,
full of vague sympathy, followed the lady wherever she went.
Marian's heart smote her for her temporary forgetfulness of the child's
wants. It was now twilight, and Marian rang for lights, and Angel's milk
and bread, which were soon brought.
And then with her usual quiet tenderness she undressed the little one,
heard her prayers, took her up, and as she rocked, sang a sweet, low
evening hymn, that soothed the child to sleep and her own heart to
perfect rest. And early the next morning Marian and little Angel set out
by the first coach for Baltimore, on their way to St. Mary's County.
* * * * *
The Convent of Bethlehem was not only the sanctuary of professed nuns,
the school for girls, the nursery of orphans, but it was also the
temporary home of those Sisters of Mercy who go forth into the world
only on errands of Christian love and charity, and return to their
convent often only to die, worn out by toil among scenes and sufferers
near which few but themselves would venture. And as they pass hence to
Heaven, their ranks are still filled up from the world--not always by
the weary and disappointed. Often young Catholic girls voluntarily leave
the untried world that is smiling fair before them to enter upon a life
of poverty, self-denial and merciful ministrations; so even in this
century the order of the Sisters of Mercy is kept up.
Among the most active and zealous of the order of Bethlehem was the
Sister Theresa, the youngest of the band. Youthful as she was, however,
this Sister's heart was no sweet sacrifice of "a flower offered in the
bud;" on the contrary, I am afraid that Sister Theresa had trifled with,
and pinched, and bruised, and trampled the poor budding heart, until she
thought it good for nothing upon earth before she offered it to Heaven.
I fear it was nothing higher than that strange revulsion of feeling,
world-weariness, disappointment, disgust, remorse, fanaticism--either,
any, or all of these, call it what you will, that in past ages and
Catholic countries have filled monasteries with the whilom, gay, worldly
and ambitious; that has sent many a woman in the prime of her beauty and
many a man at the acme of his power into a convent; that transformed the
mighty Emperor Charles V. into a cowled and shrouded monk; the reckless
swashbuckler, Ignatius Loyola, into a holy saint, and the beautiful
Louise de la Valliere into an ascetic nun; which finally metamorphosed
the gayest, maddest, merriest elf that ever danced in the moonlight
into--Sister Theresa.
Poor Jacquelina! for, of course, you can have no doubt that it is of her
we are speaking--she perpetrated her last lugubrious joke on the day
that she was to have made her vows, for when asked what patron saint she
would select by taking that saint's name in religion, she answered--St.
Theresa, because St. Theresa would understand her case the best, having
been, like herself, a scamp and a rattle-brain before she took it into
her head to astonish her friends by becoming a saint. Poor Jacko said
this with the solemnest face and the most serious earnestness; but, with
such a reputation as she had had for pertness, of course nobody would
believe but that she was making fun of the "Blessed Theresa," and so she
was put upon further probation, with the injunction to say the seven
penitential Psalms seven times a day, until she was in a holier frame of
mind; which she did, though under protest that she didn't think the
words composed by David to express his remorse for his own enormous sin
exactly suited her case. Sister Theresa, if the least steady and devout,
was certainly the most active and zealous and courageous among them all.
She yawned horribly over the long litanies and long sermons; but if ever
there was a work of mercy requiring extraordinary labor, privation,
exposure and danger, Sister Theresa was the one to face, in the cause,
lightning and tempest, plague, pestilence and famine, battle and murder,
and sudden death! Happy was she? or content? No; she was moody,
hysterical and devotional by turns--sometimes a zeal for good works
would possess her; sometimes the old fun and quaintness would break out,
and sometimes an overwhelming fit of remorse--each depending upon the
accidental cause that would chance to arouse the moods.
Humane creatures are like climates--some of a temperate atmosphere,
taking even life-long sorrow serenely--never forgetting, and never
exaggerating its cause--never very wretched, if never quite happy.
Others of a more torrid nature have long, sunny seasons of bird-like
cheerfulness and happy forgetfulness, until some slight cause, striking
"the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound," shall startle up
memory--and grief, intensely realized, shall rise to anguish, and a
storm shall pass through the soul, shaking it almost to dissolution, and
the poor subject thinks, if she can think, that her heart must go to
pieces this time! But the storm passes, and nature, instead of being
destroyed, is refreshed and ready for the sunshine and the song-birds
again. The elastic heart throws off its weight, the spirits revive, and
life goes on joyously in harmony with nature.
So it was with Jacquelina, with this sad difference, that as her trouble
was more than sorrow--for it was remorse--it was never quite thrown off.
It was not that her conscience reproached her for the fate of Dr.
Grimshaw, which was brought on by his own wrongdoing, but Marian's
fate--that a wild, wanton frolic of her own should have caused the early
death of one so young, and beautiful, and good as Marian! that was the
thought that nearly drove poor Jacquelina mad with remorse, whenever she
realized it. Dr. Grimshaw was forgiven, and--forgotten; but the thought
of Marian was the "undying worm," that preyed upon her heart. And so,
year after year, despite the arguments and persuasions of nearest
friends, and the constancy of poor Cloudy, Jacquelina tearfully turned
from love, friendship, wealth and ease, and renewed her vows of poverty,
celibacy, obedience, and the service of the poor, sick and ignorant, in
the hope of expiating her offense, soothing the voice of conscience, and
gaining peace. Jacquelina would have made her vows perpetual by taking
the black veil, but her Superior constantly dissuaded her from it. She
was young, and life, with its possibilities, was all before her; she
must wait many years before she took the step that could not be
retracted without perjury. And so each year she renewed her vow a
twelvemonth. The seventh year of her religious life was drawing to its
close, and she had notified her superior of her wish now, after so many
years of probation, to take the black veil, and make her vows perpetual.
And the Abbess had, at length, listened favorably to her expressed
wishes.
But a few days after this, as the good old Mother, Martha, the portress,
sat dozing over her rosary, behind the hall grating, the outer door was
thrown open, and a young man, in a midshipman's undress uniform, entered
rather brusquely, and came up to the grating. Touching his hat precisely
as if the old lady had been his superior officer, he said, hastily:
"Madam, if you please, I wish to see Mrs. ----; you know who I mean, I
presume? my cousin, Jacquelina."
The portress knew well enough, for she had seen Cloudy there several
times before, but she replied:
"You mean, young gentleman, that pious daughter, called in the world
Mrs. Grimshaw, but in religion Sister Theresa?"
"Fal lal!--that is--I beg your pardon, Mother, but I wish to see the
lady immediately. Can I do so?"
"The dear sister Theresa is at present making her retreat, preparatory
to taking the black veil."
"The what!" exclaimed Cloudy, with as much horror as if it had been the
"black dose" she was going to take.
"The black veil--and so she cannot be seen."
"Madam, I have a very pressing form of invitation here, which people are
not very apt to disregard. Did you ever hear of a subpoena, dear
Mother?"
The good woman never had, but she thought it evidently something
"uncanny," for she said, "I will send for the Abbess;" and she beckoned
to a nun within, and sent her on the errand--and soon the Abbess
appeared, and Cloudy made known the object of his visit.
"Go into the parlor, sir, and Sister Theresa will attend you," said that
lady.
And Cloudy turned to a side door on his right hand, and went into the
little receiving-room, three sides of which were like other rooms, but
the fourth side was a grating instead of a wall. Behind this grating
appeared Jacquelina--so white and thin with confinement, fasting and
vigil, and so disguised by her nun's dress as to be unrecognizable to
any but a lover's eyes: with her was the Abbess.
Cloudy went up to the grating. Jacquelina put her hand through, and
spoke a kind greeting; but Cloudy glanced at the Abbess, looked
reproachfully at Jacquelina, and then turning to the former, said:
"Madam, I wish to say a few words in confidence to my cousin here. Can I
be permitted to do so?"
"Most certainly, young gentleman; Sister Theresa is not restricted. It
was at her own request that I attended her hither."
"Thank you, dear lady--that which I have to say to--Sister
Theresa--involves the confidence of others: else I should not have made
the request that you have so kindly granted," said Cloudy, considerably
mollified.
The Abbess curtsied in the old stately way, and retired.
Cloudy looked at Jacquelina reproachfully.
"Are you going to be a nun, Lina?"
"Yes. Oh, Cloudy, Cloudy! what do you come here to disturb my thoughts
so for? Oh, Cloudy! every time you come to see me, you do so upset and
confuse my mind! You have no idea how many aves and paters, and psalms
and litanies I have to say before I can quiet my mind down again! And
now this is worse than all. Dear, dear Cloudy!--St. Mary, forgive me, I
never meant that--I meant plain Cloudy--see how you make me sin in
words! What did you send Mother Ettienne away for?"
"That I might talk to you alone. Why do you deny me that small
consolation, Lina? How have I offended, that you should treat me so?"
"In no way at all have you offended, dearest Cloudy--St. Peter! there it
is again--I mean only Cloudy."
"Never mind explaining the distinction. You are going to be a nun, you
say! Very well--let that pass, too! But you must leave your convent, and
go into the world yet once more, and then I shall have opportunities of
talking to you before your return."
"No, no; never will I leave my convent--never will I subject my soul to
such a temptation."
"My dear Lina, I have the cabalistic words that must draw you
forth--listen! Our cousin, Thurston Willcoxen, is in prison, charged
with the murder of Marian Mayfield"--a stifled shriek from
Jacquelina--"and there is circumstantial evidence against him strong
enough to ruin him forever, if it does not cost him his life. Now, Lina,
I cannot be wrong in supposing that you know who struck that death-blow,
and that your evidence can thoroughly exonerate Thurston from suspicion!
Am I right?"
"Yes! yes! you are right," exclaimed Jacquelina, in great agitation.
"You will go, then?"
"Yes! yes."
"When?"
"In an hour--this moment--with you."
"With me?"
"Yes! I may do so in such a case. I must do so! Oh! Heaven knows, I have
occasioned sin enough, without causing more against poor Thurston!"
"You will get ready, then, immediately, dear Lina. Are you sure there
will be no opposition?"
"Certainly not. Why, Cloudy, are you one of those who credit 'raw head
and bloody bones' fables about convents? I have no jailer but my own
conscience, Cloudy. Besides, my year's vows expired yesterday, and I am
free for awhile, before renewing them perpetually," said Jacquelina,
hurrying away to get ready.
"And may I be swung to the yard-arm if ever I let you renew them," said
Cloudy, while he waited for her.
Jacquelina was soon ready, and Cloudy rejoined her in the front entry,
behind the grating of which the good old portress, as she watched the
handsome middy drive off with her young postulant, devoutly crossed
herself, and diligently told her beads.
* * * * *
Commodore Waugh and his family were returning slowly from the South,
stopping at all the principal towns for long rests on their way
homeward.
The commodore was now a wretched, helpless old man, depending almost for
his daily life upon the care and tenderness of Mrs. Waugh.
Good Henrietta, with advancing years, had continued to "wax fat," and
now it was about as much as she could do, with many grunts, to get up
and down stairs. Since her double bereavement of her "Hebe" and her
"Lapwing," her kind, motherly countenance had lost somewhat of its
comfortable jollity, and her hearty mellow laugh was seldom heard.
Still, good Henrietta was passably happy, as the world goes, for she had
the lucky foundation of a happy temper and temperament--she enjoyed the
world, her friends and her creature comforts--her sound, innocent
sleep--her ambling pony, or her easy carriage--her hearty meals and her
dreamy doze in the soft armchair of an afternoon, while Mrs. L'Oiseau
droned, in a dreary voice, long homilies for the good of the commodore's
soul.
Mrs. L'Oiseau had got to be one of the saddest and maddest fanatics that
ever afflicted a family. And there were hours when, by holding up too
graphic, terrific, and exasperating pictures of the veteran's past and
present wickedness and impenitence, and his future retribution, in the
shape of an external roasting in the lake that burneth with fire and
brimstone--she drove the old man half frantic with rage and fright! And
then she would nearly finish him by asking: "If hell was so horrible to
hear of for a little while, what must it be to feel forever and ever?"
They had reached Charleston, on their way home. Mrs. L'Oiseau, too much
fatigued to persecute her uncle for his good, had gone to her chamber.
The commodore was put comfortably to bed.
And Mrs. Waugh took the day's paper, and sat down by the old man's side,
to read him the news until he should get sleepy. As she turned the paper
about, her eyes fell upon the same paragraph that had so agitated
Marian. Now, Henrietta was by no means excitable--on the contrary, she
was rather hard to be moved; but on seeing this announcement of the
arrest of Mr. Willcoxen, for the crime with which he was charged, an
exclamation of horror and amazement burst from her lips. In another
moment she had controlled herself, and would gladly have kept the
exciting news from the sick man until the morning.
But it was too late--the commodore had heard the unwonted cry, and now,
raised upon his elbow, lay staring at her with his great fat eyes, and
insisting upon knowing what the foul fiend she meant by screeching out
in that manner?
It was in vain to evade the question--the commodore would hear the news.
And Mrs. Waugh told him.
"And by the bones of Paul Jones, I always believed it!" falsely swore
the commodore; and thereupon he demanded to hear "all about it."
Mrs. Waugh commenced, and in a very unsteady voice read the long account
quite through. The commodore made no comment, except an occasional grunt
of satisfaction, until she had finished it, when he growled out:
"Knew it!--hope they'll hang him!--d----d rascal! If it hadn't been for
him, there'd been no trouble in the family! Now call Festus to help to
turn me over, and tuck me up, Henrietta; I want to go to sleep!"
That night Mrs. Waugh said nothing, but the next morning she proposed
hurrying homeward with all possible speed.
But the commodore would hear of no such thing. He swore roundly that he
would not stir to save the necks of all the scoundrels in the world,
much less that of Thurston, who, if he did not kill Marian, deserved
richly to be hanged for giving poor Nace so much trouble.
Mrs. Waugh coaxed and urged in vain. The commodore rather liked to hear
her do so, and so the longer she pleaded, the more obstinate and dogged
he grew, until at last Henrietta desisted--telling him, very
well!--justice and humanity alike required her presence near the unhappy
man, and so, whether the commodore chose to budge or not, she should
surely leave Charleston in that very evening's boat for Baltimore, so as
to reach Leonardtown in time for the trial. Upon hearing this, the
commodore swore furiously; but knowing of old that nothing could turn
Henrietta from the path of duty, and dreading above all things to lose
her comfortable attentions, and be left to the doubtful mercies of Mary
L'Oiseau, he yielded, though with the worst possible grace, swearing all
the time that he hoped the villain would swing for it yet.
And then the trunks were packed, and the travelers resumed their
homeward journey.