FERNBOROUGH HALL
Fernborough Hall,--not a hall in the town of Fernborough in the
Commonwealth of Massachusetts, but a rambling, old-fashioned brick
building in the County of Sussex in “Merrie England;” a stately home
set in the middle of hundreds of acres of upland, lowland, and woodland.
Wings had been added as required, and a tower from which, on a clear
day, the English Channel could be seen with the naked eye, while a
field-glass brought into view the myriad craft, bound east and west,
north and south, on the peaceful missions of trade.
There was no terrace upon which gaudy peacocks strutted back and forth,
but in front of the Hall was a small artificial lake in which some
transplanted fish led the lives of prisoners. Lady Fernborough begged
the Baronet to end their miserable existence, but, to him, innovation
was folly and destruction bordered on criminality.
“When I am gone, Ella,” he would say, “you may introduce your American
ideas, for everything will be yours. When the Fernborough name dies, let
the fish die too.”
The long search for his lost daughter had made him misanthropic. His
knowledge of her sad death had been accompanied, it is true, by
the pleasing intelligence that his daughter's child lived, but that
grand-daughter, though of his blood and British born, had not been
educated according to British ideas. To be sure, she was now a Countess,
but she had been transplanted to her native soil, and had not grown
there.
It might be asked, if he was so insular in his ideas, why had he taken
an American wife, and she a widow? He had been charmed by her vivacity.
She lifted him out of the gloom in which he had lived so long. If she
had been tame and prosaic, she would have worn the weeds of widowhood
again in a short time. She made him comfortable; she surrounded him with
the brightest people she could find; he was not allowed to mope indoors,
and Sir Stuart Fernborough and his sprightly American wife attended all
the important social functions of the County, and many in London, and
at the houses of their friends. And now a great joy was to come to Lady
Fernborough. She expected visitors from the United States, and what she
considered needful preparations kept her in a flutter of excitement.
“How soon do you expect them?” asked Sir Stuart at breakfast.
“To-morrow, or next day. They sailed on the tenth; to-morrow is the
seventeenth, but they may rest for a day in Liverpool--”
“Or stay a day or two in London,” suggested Sir Stuart.
“I hope not, for my guests will be impatient to see a real live American
ex-governor. Quincy's political advancement has been very rapid.”
“America is a rapid country, my dear,” was Sir Stuart's comment.
When Lady Fernborough reached her boudoir, she seated herself at her
writing desk and wrote rapidly for nearly an hour.
“I don't wish too many guests,” she soliloquized as she sealed the last
invitation. “Now, I must write to Linda.”
“My dear Linda,
“I have a great surprise for you. You must forgive me for keeping
a secret. I do it so seldom, I wished the experience. I am like the
penniless suitor who proposed to an heiress, who, he knew, would reject
him, just to see how it would make him feel to lose a fortune. I think
I saw that in Punch, but it fits my case exactly. They will be here,
_sure_, day after to-morrow. I mean Quincy and Alice, and, I hope,
Maude. Come and bring all the children. I suppose Algernon is in London
helping to make laws for unruly Britishers, but we will make merry and
defy the constables. Despite my marital patronymic, and my armorial
bearings, I am still, your loving aunt Ella.”
Alice was not to tell the sad news to Lady Fernborough. The telegraph
outstrips the ocean liner, and a newspaper, with tidings of the great
calamity, was in Aunt Ella's hands long before the arrival of the
broken-hearted wife and disconsolate sister. The invitations were
countermanded, and days of sorrow followed instead of the anticipated
time of joyfulness.
Alice and Florence told the story of the tragedy over and over again to
sympathizing listeners.
“That was just like Quincy to give his place to that poor woman and her
child,” said Aunt Ella. “Like Bayard he was without fear and he died
without reproach.”
Alice would not abandon hope. She racked her brain for possibilities and
probabilities. Perhaps there had been another boat in which her husband
and the Captain escaped. They might have been discovered and rescued by
some vessel bound to America, or, perhaps, some faraway foreign country.
He would let them know as soon as he reached land.
Aunt Ella, though naturally optimistic, did not, in her own heart, share
Alice's hopeful anticipations. Perhaps Florence's somewhat extravagant
account of the collision and the events which followed it led her to
form the opinion that her nephew's escape from death was impossible.
Hope takes good root, but it is a flower that, too often, has no
blossom. A month passed--two--three--four--five--six--and then despair
filled the young wife's heart. She could bear up no longer, and Dr.
Parshefield made frequent visits.
Aunt Ella pressed the fatherless infant to her breast.
“What shall you name him, Alice?”
“There can be but one name for him. God sent us two little girls, but
took them back again. We both wished for a son, and Heaven has sent one,
but has taken the father from us.”
“And you will name him--”
“Quincy Adams Sawyer, Junior,” was the answer. “It is his birthright.”
“But,” said Aunt Ella, “they never add Junior to a boy's name unless his
father is living.”
Alice sat up in bed, and her eyes flashed as she said,
“My heart has renewed its hope with this young life. I believe my
husband still lives, and, until I have conclusive proofs of his death,
our son's name will be Quincy Adams Sawyer, Junior.”