the first time he floundered.
"Steam, you know," he said, blunderingly,--"the steam that comes out of
a teakettle--"
"Yes," interrupted Mrs. Van Tromp, who had not exactly taken in what
Marian had said. "Doesn't it seem strange that it should propel a ship
three hundred miles a day across the ocean? Dear me!"
"The steam from a teakettle propel a ship three hundred miles a day!
Madam, either thou art grossly deceived, or else thou--"
"But perhaps you came over in a yacht," cried Mrs. Van Tromp, thinking
the lady Marian unused to the records of the Cunarders and White Star
ships, in which passengers are so profoundly interested. "Of course
on a yacht it is quite different, you know. There isn't any object in
covering so many miles a day. But I must say I like fast traveling. The
slowest time we ever made in crossing was two hundred miles a day, and
we were out nearly fourteen days."
"But the steam from the teakettle--and two hundred miles a day? Did I
hear aright?" asked Marian.
"You certainly did," said Mrs. Van Tromp, with a heightened color.
"Then, madam," said Lady Marian, rising majestically, "I can only say
that such crazy tales reflect neither grace nor credit on you, and if
you be not taken for one who loves marvels more than truth it will much
surprise me."
Mrs. Van Tromp rose too. She hated to give up taking Lady Marian and
her father and Lady Stukely to the Matriarchs, but there were some
things she could not stand.
"I am sure," she said, speaking in a tone of lofty dignity, but
fluttering her fan with some agitation, "that you do not mean to imply
that I say what is false; but your language is at least open to that
inference."
"Madam," replied Marian, with equal haughtiness, "my language and your
inference are one. And that thou thinkest me a poor credulous fool adds
not one whit to the good will I owe thee. This comes," she continued,
with severe displeasure, "of mercers' wives playing lady."
Macfarren's position during this colloquy was awkward in the extreme.
He had been blest in always seeing women in their gracious and lovable
aspect, and now with these two ladies, each a queen in her own realm,
facing each other, crimson and defiant, himself responsible for their
meeting, the situation was anything but agreeable to his fastidious
nature. But it need scarcely be said that his sympathies were all with
Marian. Unconsciously she had been the aggressor; but how unjust to
judge her by that stricter code of manners that governed Mrs. Van
Tromp! How proud the young girl looked, serene in her consciousness of
rank and position! How like an angry fish-wife looked Mrs. Van Tromp!
And what was he to say or do? Obviously, nothing.
Mrs. Van Tromp made the next move. She was furiously vexed, but, being
at the core a very shrewd woman, she did not intend to close every
chink of reconciliation. The Lady Marian was certainly a very queer
person, and this might be only one of her numerous peculiarities; but
she was the daughter of Lord Howard de Winstanley and chaperoned by
Lady Stukely. So, making a low bow, she said:
"I am sorry that this should have occurred. I feel myself blameless,
though; and when Lady Marian de Winstanley makes the apology she owes
me, and which she also owes herself, I shall be glad to forget that it
has ever happened."
But, before she could sail gracefully off, the Lady Marian had started
up, and, seizing Macfarren by the arm nervously, cried out, in a voice
full of distress:
"Let us return to your lodgings. I am better there than elsewhere in
this strange inn, and there I will remain alone with thee the seven
days thou sayest it will take for my father to reach me."
Poor Mrs. Van Tromp!
In moments of great excitement all kinds and classes of people are apt
to fall into the same homely idiomatic language. Therefore Mrs. Van
Tromp said, or rather shouted, at this terrible instant, "The brazen
hussy!" and with one fierce scowl that took in both Macfarren and
the Lady Marian, and with a wild rustle of draperies, she flew down
the corridor, the swish-swish of her trained dress sounding like the
flapping wings of a frightened domestic fowl.
"You've done it now," was Macfarren's involuntary exclamation; but
he was too loyal to his new-found love to let any other word escape
him. There was nothing for him but to take her back to his apartments,
call up the proprietor, and settle upon some temporary plan for the
protection of this solitary and beautiful young creature. "Come," said
he, leading the way.
"Perhaps," said Marian, as they walked rapidly down the long, narrow,
red-carpeted hall, "I was hasty with the mercer's wife; but the
low-bred creature did vex me with her lies. But I think she hath not
all her wits about her. Didst thou not observe the strange ways of
speech she had?" tapping her forehead significantly.
"Perhaps," said Macfarren; "but here is the door." He opened it, and
ushered her into his little drawing-room as if she had been a queen.
Marian turned and locked the door behind them. "To keep the mad woman
out," she explained.
Macfarren led her to a sofa. "Now," said he, "let us determine upon
your immediate future. Rest assured, all that reverence and the
tenderest respect can do for you shall be done."
"I believe thee," answered Marian, turning her large clear gaze upon
him. "I know not who nor what thou art, but this: thou art a gentleman;
and that is enough."
Macfarren bowed to the ground.
"But it seems plain to me," she continued. "London, thou sayest, is but
seven days from here by land."
"By land and water," corrected Macfarren.
"Well, it matters not," she said, impatiently, "so it be seven days. My
father is there, and will quickly send a trusty person after me. Now,
tell me, friend, who are the persons of chief consideration in this
town?"
Macfarren stopped to think a moment. He answered, not according
to his own conviction, but merely by the general estimate:
"The--the--Vanderbilts and the Astors, I presume."
"Who are they?" demanded Marian.
"Rich merchants," responded Macfarren.
"That will do then," said Marian, decisively. "This, then, is my plan.
I will go to the house of the first thou didst name. No doubt they
will be pleased to entertain a daughter of the house of Winstanley. I
will crave their hospitality until my father doth send or come; and in
leaving I will present them with this string of pearls, which will do
doubt delight their honest hearts, unused to the gold and glitter of
the great. Thou shalt take me; so get thy sword and mantle and come."
She was evidently determined; but at that moment a tremendous knocking
came at the door. "Open! open!" he heard half a dozen voices shout,
and "Murder!" He recognized the voices. There was the loud basso of
the proprietor and the weak treble of the room-clerk, and there was
Marsden, his particular chum, and Smithers, the greatest gossip of the
hotel smoking-room, all bellowing in chorus, and the door must yield
soon. A cold horror seized him. Marian, the woman he would have died
to save--and then, strongly, strangely, the coward's longing to escape
from it all possessed him like a devil; had he a pistol all would soon
be over. In one moment was concentrated the agony of a lifetime. He
thought he was going mad. He put his hands to his reeling head, and
felt himself sinking by inches into black forgetfulness.
* * * * *
"I say, old fellow, you had a close call!" was what he next heard, in
Marsden's voice. "Your clothes were smoking; the picture's burned to a
crisp; and next time you fall asleep with a lighted cigar in your mouth
just have the fire-brigade handy. This'll cost you in the neighborhood
of five hundred dollars' damage to furniture and books alone."
"Thank God!" was all Macfarren answered.
LITTLE MISSY.
Do you know the feeling of living in a house pervaded by an unseen
presence--a person who has lived there once, and whose spirit seems to
dwell there forever afterward? That was what Mrs. Jack Hereford felt
when she and her husband took refuge from New York and Newport and
Tuxedo at Malvern, the old Virginia plantation, with its tumbledown
house, full of rickety furniture, and staring daubs of family portraits
in every room in it. The house and everything in it, and six hundred
acres of land grown up with pine saplings, had been bought for a song
from the heirs of the estate, who had never seen it, and never wanted
to see it.
Colonel Baskerville had been the last owner of the place, and he had
been dead ten years; also Mrs. Baskerville. And there had been three
children--two sons, one of whom was shot dead at Gettysburg, and the
other had died of wounds and exposure. The daughter, Amy Baskerville,
too, was no more. All this Mrs. Hereford gathered from the one or two
persons she had met, and the old doctor who was her nearest and only
neighbor.
It was this Amy Baskerville whose shadowy, girlish presence was all
over Malvern. She was only twenty when she died, as the plain headstone
in the old family burying-ground said. The brick walls of the graveyard
were crumbling, and the iron gate had given way. Cattle and sheep
browsed on the green mounds. Many of the tombs of the dead-and-gone
Baskervilles were marble slabs supported on pillars, of which the solid
brick and mortar had disappeared, leaving them like gigantic tables.
The later graves were sunken, especially those of Colonel Baskerville
and his wife, over which a simple monument was raised, inscribed to the
memory of Colonel Marmaduke Baskerville and Nancy, his wife. Those over
the two sons were highly ornate, and bore long epitaphs: "Marmaduke,
who was killed while gallantly leading his regiment, after the fall
of both his colonel and lieutenant-colonel," followed by a long list
of Marmaduke's virtues; and "George, who died of wounds contracted in
the service of his country, at the early age of eighteen." The story
was plain. The poor old colonel and his wife had put up the showy
tombstones with Pity weeping over an urn, and their executors had put
up the plain stones over the father and mother and little Amy.
Hanging in the grim library, with its few old-fashioned books upon the
crazy shelves, were portraits of the colonel, a veritable Virginia
colonel, with a tremendous shirt ruffle rushing out of his generous
bosom, and his rosy face wearing a look of majestic solemnity common
in portraits, but which Colonel Baskerville never wore for five
consecutive minutes in his life. Then there were portraits of George
and Marmaduke, both handsome lads, both as alike as two peas, and,
besides, a portrait of little Amy. She was about sixteen when it was
painted. It was so sweet, so sad! There was not a trace of weakness
in the half-womanish, half-childish mouth and chin. In the delicate,
well-poised head one could see more will power, more intellect, than
in the portly colonel and both of the handsome, frank-faced boys
put together. This was not Amy's only picture. There was an old
daguerreotype on the drawing-room table which revealed her in a white
dress, and half a dozen faded photographs of her in her riding-habit,
in fancy dress, in numerous other costumes and attitudes, sometimes
with one, sometimes with another, of her brothers; and a whole
bookful of sketches, scribbled all over, "The Book of Amy. Life and
Adventures of Amy Baskerville. By G. B., Esq.," in which G. B., who
had considerable skill, pictured Amy in numberless grotesque and
humiliating circumstances, and once or twice as she must truly have
been, graceful and picturesque.
Then there were piles of old-fashioned, desperately sentimental songs
on the broken-down old piano in the drawing-room, which had once been
sung by Amy's fresh young voice. One day Mrs. Hereford came across
a frayed little white satin slipper that had been Amy's, and had
evidently done good service. It was the saddest little reminder in
the world. It was like the ghost of youth and joy. And there was a
broken fan, laid away in tissue paper, and inscribed, "To be mended."
Mrs. Hereford locked these little girlish relics up carefully in the
drawer of the dressing-table in what had been Amy's room. On the
dressing-table was an old-fashioned swinging glass, in which Amy had
once been wont to look roguishly, admiring her own fresh beauty. The
glass remained, but Amy was dust and ashes.
One afternoon Mrs. Hereford, sitting on the porch, around which the
vines had grown in neglected luxuriance, saw an old negro woman coming
up the pathway toward the house. She was very infirm, and leaned upon
the shoulder of a little darky about ten years old, who dutifully
supported her. She stopped at the foot of the steps, and, with an
old-fashioned courtesy, said, "Good-evenin', my mistis."
"Good-evening, aunty," replied Mrs. Hereford, having learned that much
of Southern etiquette. "Won't you walk in and rest yourself?"
She crept painfully up the steps, and sat down in the rush-bottomed
chair offered her. The little darky squatted on the steps, and fixed a
pair of bright black beads on "de lady f'um de Norf," which he never
removed.
"You will 'scuse me, lady, fur troublin' you so much as ter come here.
But I hed to come--I _hed_ to come. It seem like I couldn't die 'twell
I hed done seed de ole place," she said, presently.
"You are quite welcome," replied Mrs. Hereford.
"You see," she said, glancing deprecatingly at Mrs. Hereford, while she
smoothed down the clean but faded handkerchief on her breast, "I was de
head 'oman in dis here house. I was ole mistis' maid, an' den I nuss
dem two boys, an' Miss Amy, and arter dey was all gone I went, too. But
I done hed de ager so bad, an' I feel so po'ly I don't never 'spect ter
be able ter git here no mo'. So I come, jest ter tell ole marse an' all
un 'em how things is lookin'. Kase I 'spects ter fin' 'em all when I
gits to glory, an' ole marse he sho to say, 'Keziah, how's things gwine
at Malvern?' Lord! when I got ter tell him de Yankees done bought de
place an' livin' here!"
"But, gra'mammy," said the little darky, who had been to school and had
imbibed some theology, "dey doan' keer nuttin' 'bout Norverners an'
Souverners in heaben--"
"You shet yo' mouf, boy! You didn' never know ole marse. Doan' make no
diff'unce whar he is, I lay he gwine cuss like a trooper when I done
tole him de Yankees is livin' at Malvern--an' he sho' to arsk."
The youngster, more cowed by Aunt Keziah's energy than her arguments,
maintained a discreet silence after this. Mrs. Hereford, who was a
gentle and merciful woman, said to her:
"Wouldn't you like to go inside? It's very little changed since we
came."
"Thankee, lady," she said, rising and hobbling to the hall door. Her
uncertain step was heard going toward the library; then a long pause,
and a quicker return. "I c'yarn do it!--I c'yarn," she panted, sitting
down in her chair. "I thot I'd go ev'ywhar, all 'bout de house, an'
set down in ev'y room; but seems ter me I hear dem voices callin'--ole
marse bawlin' out 'Keziah!' an' little missy (she lisp when she talk)
she say 'Kethiah'--an' I couldn't stay no longer. I was sorry I come."
"Was it very long ago that it all happened?"
"'Twarn't so long dat I kin forgit it. Fust time I ever feel like
trouble was comin' was one mornin' when little marse--dat was
Marmaduke, an' all de black folks call him young marse, 'cause he was
tall like he pa, an' was more'n twenty-one; but I had done rock him
when he was a baby, an' I never could call him nuttin' but little
marse--he rid away fur to whip de Yankees. He help ter raise a comp'ny,
an' he was 'lected cap'n, an' dat mornin,' right arter breakfast, he
was gwine away. All de black folks 'bout de house was out here on dis
here porch fur to tell him good-by, an' marse an' missis an' little
missy, an' Marse George an' me, an' all on 'em was smilin' an mighty
gay 'cept me an' Marse George. He was lookin' sorter black an' sulky
'cause he want ter go ter de war too; but he warn't but sixteen years
old, an' ole marse an' missis wouldn't let him. When little marse come
out, he look so fine in his bran'-new uniform, an' Jake--dat was he
body servant--was settin' on one o' ole marse's best horses, holdin'
little marse's horse by de bridle, an' jes' a grinnin', he was so
happy. Young marse had he sword in he hand, an' little missy--she
warn't but fifteen--tooken it from him an' snatch he cap off, an' strut
up an' down ter make ole marse laugh; an' den she buckle de sword on
agin, an' little marse he went up an' shook hands wid ole marse, an' he
say: 'Good-by, father. You'll see me back 'fore de leaves fall. 'Twon't
take long to whip dem chicken-hearted Yankees.' An' missis she hol' him
in her arms, an' she kiss him, but she keep on smilin' an never shed a
tear.
"I cry so hard I had ter run upsty'ars, an' I went in little marse's
room, an' set down in de cheer, an' cried 'twell I couldn't cry no mo'.
I got up den, an' was gittin' out he nice white shirts an' he high
beaver hat fur to put 'em away 'ginst he come home, when little missy
she walk in. Her cheeks was white like chalk, an' her big black eyes
had a kinder skeert look in 'em, an' she steal up ter me, an' say,
'Oh, mammy, do you think he'll ever come back?' an' fust thing _I_
know she was cryin' wusser'n me, an' I jes' took her in my lap like I
useter when she was a little gal, an' set down, an' say, 'H'ish! h'ish!
in course he gwine ter come back.' All dat day little missy she hang
on ter me. Old marse he stay down in de fiel' making 'tense he was
lookin' arter de han's, an' missis she shet herself up in de store-room
ter fix up de house-keepin' book, an' I didn't see neither one 'twell
dinner-time. Den dey talk mighty cheerful, an' little missy she plague
George 'bout gwine ter de army, but I didn't hear none on 'em say a
word 'bout little marse. But _I_ know dey didn't furgit him.
"Arter dat things was mighty cur'us. Missis she couldn't get no mo'
clo'es, an' she put away all her fine silks an' satins, an' all little
missy's too, an' her diamond comb, an' her lace shawl, an' wear nuttin'
but homespun. Little marse, he wroten heaps 'o letters, an' he didn'
furgit he po' ole black mammy. He wroten me hisse'f, an' I got dem
letters in my chis' now. I c'yarn read 'em, but I loves 'em. An' all
de time, I kep' a-honin' fur him, an' skeert 'bout him. Mistis, she
was a brave 'oman--she never let on she was skeert. Night an' mornin',
when she read pr'yars in de dinin'-room, wid ole marse an' little missy
an' de house-servants settin' roun', she pray fur little marse, 'twell
sometimes ole marse he wipe he eyes, an' I hed to fling my ap'on over
my hade an' cry; but her voice never shake none. But _I_ never did
'spect ter see him no mo', an' one night--"
Here she hesitated. The dead and gone tragedy rose up bodily before her
eyes, and she paused a moment, gasping in contemplation of it.
"One night I was settin' by de charmber fire, an' I hear a cart come
up ter de front do'; an' I wonder what kin' o' folks 'twas comin' dat
time o' night in a cart. So I run out an' open de do' as soon as I
heerd de knock--an' 'twas our Jake. 'Whar's little marse?' I ask him,
ketchin' hol' on him. Jake look at me, an' he was kinder ashy, an' he
couldn't speak. An' I hear ole marse an' missis comin'; an' sumpin' was
in de cart all covered up, an' two men was takin' it out. When Jake
seed missis, he start ter trimble; an' ole marse he shout, 'Whar's yo'
marster?--whar's my son?' An' Jake he pint ter de cart."
At this point she stopped. She took out a tattered handkerchief and
began to finger it nervously. The afternoon shadows had lengthened
since she had begun.
"Dey brung de coffin in de parlor, an' sot it down on cheers. He look
jes' like he did de mornin' he rid away, but bofe legs was broke.
Nobody teched him but me an' Jake. He hed two letters in he pocket, an'
one was a letter I had done got little missy ter write fur me, tellin'
him to take keer o' hisself. Ole marse, he do mighty queer. Arter
ev'ything was fixed, he come an' set down by de coffin, an' he never
cry nor nuttin'--he jes' put he han' ev'y now an' den on little marse's
head, an' say, 'My son, my son Marmaduke!' Missis she set by him, an'
talk ter him, an' pray wid him, an' read de Bible to him, an' seem like
she didn't think 'bout nuttin' but comfortin' old marse. Little missy
she creep upsty'ars into little marse's room an' flung herself on de
floor, an' lay like she was dead, 'twell I took her up in my arms, and
settin' down in de rockin'-cheer, she see me cryin', an' she cry too.
"Ole marse he do jes' de same arter de funeral. He set an' look at
little marse's picter, an' he wouldn't let nobody move he whip off'n de
rack, nor a ole p'yar o' spurs o' little marse's.
"Georgie hed been 'way at school. But one day a letter come. Marse
George hed done run away ter jine de army. When dat letter come I
seed missis put on a look I ain't furgot ter dis day. Georgie was her
favorite. An' 'fo' de winter was out--'twas in de fall when Georgie run
away--he died in de horspital. He hed been writin' 'twarn't nuttin'
matter wid him, an' he'd be outen de horspital 'fo' missis could git
ter him; but she was gwine ter start de naix day. Ole marse fotch him
home. He warn't eighteen, an' he hed a little muffstach comin', and
he didn't look any older den little missy when dey laid him by little
marse. He was de handsomest o' all de chillen.
"Dat kilt missis. Ole marse he done fur her jes' like she hed done for
him, an' little missy stay by her night an' day; but one night, when de
doctor say she was gittin' better, she call me, an' she say: 'Keziah,
I'm dyin', an' I know it. Don't leave yo' marster an' Amy. Stay by
'em faithful like you has been ter me an' de boys.' An' de very naix
week she died. Missis was a Chrischun, if ever I seed one. She would
'a lived if she could; but what kilt Georgie kilt her too. Seemed ter
me arter dat like poor Keziah have ter see ole marse an' little missy
go too; but I kep' up as well as I knowed how. Little missy was mighty
pretty den. She was mos' twenty, an' she kep' gittin' mo' an' mo' like
Georgie. De war was over den, an' some de han's went off, an' dere
warn't nobody but me in de house, an' de cook an' Jake did de res'
o' de work. Ole marse he walk 'bout like he didn't keer fur nuttin'.
One day two men drive up in a shiny new buggy, an' I hear 'em talkin'
mighty sassy to ole marse on de porch, an' pres'ny ole marse stan'
up, an' he say out loud: 'Gent'men, take all. Take my plantation, my
house an' furniture, my horses an' cattle an' stock an' ev'ything. I'm
a bankrup', but I'm a honest man.' An' dey try ter smoove him down, an'
arter a while dey went off.
"'Bout dat time I heerd dey was some Yankee orficers campin' out in de
woods, an' one arternoon one on 'em rid up ter de do' an' got down. Ole
marse an' little missy was settin' out;--'twas summer-time. De minute I
seed him I seed he was like little marse, and little missy seed it too,
'cause she tole me so. He was a gent'mun, ef ever I see one--an' black
folks kin tell gent'muns quicker'n white folks kin--an' when he walk up
de steps he bow low to bofe on 'em, an' hol' he cap in he han' all de
time he was talkin'. He tole ole marse he was a ingineer, an' hed come
fur to make some maps or sumpin', and he had done foun' a good place
fur a camp on de place, an' de Government tell him he kin camp anywhar,
but he wouldn't like ter put up he tents an' things 'cept he had ole
marse's consent. Ole marse say, 'De Government done took my two sons,
all my servants, my horses, cattle, sheep, an' ev'ything I hed, so I
s'pose it can take my plantation too.' De orficer turned red as a beet,
an' so did little missy, an' she got up an' put her hand on ole marse's
shoulder and said, 'Father!' jes' like missis. Den marser sorter cooled
down, an' said he didn't keer a cuss 'bout de camp, an' de orficer
thank him like he had give him de plantation, and den he made a bow,
an' one ter little missy, an' git on he horse an' ride away.