In this manner Miss Sukey was training, all unconsciously, the mind of the most romantic little fairy that ever lived to make a romance of her own.

When the dip candle had burned nearly down to the socket Aunt Sukey knew by that sign that it was about nine o'clock. They had no other timepiece, so they went by the candle, which always burned just so long.

Then Aunt Sukey would only finish her chapter before closing her book.

Then Henny would wake up, light a fresh candle, and stand waiting orders. She need never have waited, for she knew exactly what the order would be. It was always the same formula.

"Henny, go to the storehouse, and draw a jug of fresh cider, and cork it tight. Then take the bread tray, and get a quart of flour, and a quarter of a pound of lard, and a teaspoonful of salt, and bring all in here. And don't forget the rolling board and pin, nor the hoe blade."

These would all be brought, and then Henny, having carefully washed her hands, and set the clean hoe blade to heat before the fire, would stand up to the table upon which she had placed her kneading tray, and there she would knead and afterward roll out her hoe cake, and spread it on the heated hoe to bake before the fire. She would, in fact, bake three in succession, turning them carefully, and finally placing them near the fire as they were taken off the hoe, to be kept hot until all was ready. Lastly, she would carry away all the utensils used, bring the little table to the front of the fire, and place cider, glasses, hoe cakes and china plates from the corner cupboard upon it. And the aunt and niece would sit down and "take a snack," as they called it—make a very hearty supper of very substantial food, as we should certainly say. What powers of digestion they must have had!

When they had feasted, Henny would finish what was left, clear and replace the table, replenish the fire from the wood pile outside the door, sweep the hearth, put up the fender, and bid her mistress good-night.

The aunt and niece would say their prayers, undress, and go to bed together.

This was the routine, observed every evening, that Rosemary enjoyed more than anything on the face of the earth, except—oh, yes! except going to the dancing school at Charlotte Hall, whither she was taken with her cousins at Oldfield twice a week.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE VISIT TO MISS SIBBY

Just such an evening the two cronies had passed on the day previous to this sudden invitation to go to Miss Sibby's.

Rosemary hated to go. She knew to do so would involve the sacrifice of their evening readings.

"Oh, Aunt Sukey," she said, as she buttoned up her blue bombazet pelisse—"oh, to think that we had got into such an interesting part of 'The Children of the Abbey!' Amanda had just met Lord Mortimer! And now it will be a week, or maybe a fortnight, before we can go on with it."

"Never mind, Rosemary. Your mother lets you stay with me nearly always, and you are her only child, too, and she is a widow; so when she sends for us we must go," said Aunt Sukey.

"Oh, yes, I know; but Amanda and Lord Mortimer——"

"Never mind Amanda and Lord Mortimer; they can wait until we come back. Now roll up your quilt pieces, and we will put them in my bag. Come! are you ready?"

"Yes, Aunt Sukey, soon as I have pulled on my mits."

"Now we must go and take leave of Molly and the children," said Miss Grandiere.

But as she spoke, there entered from the door on the right of the fireplace a pretty, fragile woman of about forty-five years of age, who, with the exception of her fair skin, blue eyes and brown hair, bore not the slightest resemblance to her tall, stately and handsome sister. She was dressed in a brown, linsey gown, white apron, white neck shawl and white cap. She was closely followed by two little girls of ten and twelve years of age, fair and blue-eyed, like their mother, with frocks that seemed to have been cut off the same piece as their mother's gown. These were the two children of the house—Erina and Melina Elk.

"Why, I have just heard from Dan that you are going Down on the Bay," said the newcomer.

"Yes; Dolly Hedge has sent for us; and as I wanted to go so as to see the wedding at All Faith on Tuesday, I think it is rather lucky that she has sent."

"How long are you going to stay?"

"Until after the wedding, certainly; perhaps longer."

"Well, I do feel so ashamed of the Forces for throwing off their own flesh and blood for the sake of a stranger and a foreigner, that I have no patience with them; and I wouldn't go to the wedding, no, not if it was next door!"

"But, Molly, the young lady fell in love with the English officer; and I think it was very noble of her father to sacrifice his own dearest hopes on the shrine of his daughter's happiness."

"Oh, don't talk to me about shrines and sacrifices! That's all out of the romances you wear your eyes out reading at night. I believe in neighbors and in kinsfolks, not in strangers and foreigners. There!"

"Well, Molly, you have a right to your own opinions, and the Forces have a right to theirs. You must admit that!"

"Yes; and the heathen have a right to theirs, I suppose you think, Sukey."

"No; that is carrying the matter too far. But good-by, Molly. We must go now. We will be back as soon as we can."

The departing ones kissed their relatives, and went out to the block, where Dan stood holding the horse.

Henny followed with a heavy shawl, which she folded and laid upon the saddle.

"Mind, girl; as soon as you have cleaned up the room, get ready and come after us. We may stay longer than we expect Down on the Bay, so you must bring a change of clothes with you. Be sure to start from here in time to get to Oldfield before night. I don't like, the idea of your going through the forest alone after dark," said Miss Grandiere.

"Nebber you fear, Miss Sukey. I be down at Olefiel' by de time yo' dere yo'se'f—fo' sundown, anyhow," said the negro girl, as she helped her mistress to climb into the saddle, and then lifted Rosemary up to a seat behind her.

"Now, Miss Rose'ry, yo' hole on tight. Put yo' arms 'roun' yo' Aunt Sukey's waist, and hole on tight. Don't you slip off! Look'ee here, yo' nigger Dan; yo' walk 'longside ob dis chile, case she fall off. Tell yo' wot, nigger, ef dis chile fall off an' break her arm or anyfing, yo' better not show yo' face at Olefiel'—nor likewise here, needer! Yo' hears me, doan yo'?"

"Oh, Aunt Henny, I am not going to fall off; nor neither would Dan let me. Poor Dan! Don't scold him beforehand," pleaded Rosemary.

"High, chile, 'twould be too late to scold arterward. Wot I sez is, do you' scoldin' an' yo' whippin' 'fo' dere's any cause fer it—'taint no good to do it arterward; 'twon't ondo nuffin' wot's done," said Henny; but her wisdom was lost on the party, who had already started on their way, aunt and niece riding double, and Dan walking beside the horse.

Their way lay over snow-covered ground, through bare woods, up and down rolling hills, and over frozen streams.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon when they emerged from the last piece of woods and entered upon a cultivated clearing, in which stood an old-fashioned farmhouse, with a steep roof with gable ends, dormer windows, and wide porches, surrounded by its barn, granaries and negro quarters.

As Miss Grandiere pulled up at the horse block before the door, a lady, tall, stately, handsome, with a fair complexion, blue eyes and brown hair, very like Miss Grandiere herself, and handsomely dressed in a puce-colored silk pelisse, and a beaver bonnet, appeared at the door, and said:

"You haven't time to stop, Sukey. Sally and the children are all well, and are in the storeroom picking over apples. You can see them when we come home this evening; but now we must hurry; so you just get down and set the child in your seat, and let Dan lead the horse, and we will walk through the woods to Miss Sibby's. I don't know what is going on there, but something is."

"I thought it was hot biscuits out of the new flour," said Miss Grandiere.

"Yes, it is that, too," replied Mrs. Hedge, without perceiving the sarcasm; "but there is something else—something that that wild young blade, Roland Bayard, and that young Midshipman Force, have on foot. I know there is!"

"Roland Bayard! Has he come home?"

"So Gad says. I couldn't get much out of that nigger, though. He said he was in a hurry, and hadn't time to stop. He said he had to carry that bag of wheat to the mill and get it ground, and carry it back home in time to make bread for supper; so you see I couldn't get much out of him."

By this time the new order of procession was formed, and the sisters walked on together, followed by little Rosemary on the saddle, and Dan leading the horse.

"I should not think," said Miss Grandiere, "that young Midshipman Force would feel very much like skylarking after such a disappointment and mortification as he has had."

"No would you, now? But then he was a mere boy, and she only a child, when they were engaged; and then after three years, you know, both might have changed their minds," suggested practical Mrs. Hedge.

"I don't know," sighed sentimental Miss Grandiere.

"Well, I tell you, of all the scapegrace, devil-may-care, never-do-well, neck-or-nothing boys that ever lived or died in this world, that Roland Bayard is the very worst! I am sorry young Force has anything to do with him."

"I don't think he is evil at heart," pleaded Miss Grandiere.

"'Evil at heart'" repeated Mrs. Hedge, reflectively. "No, perhaps not."

"He is a little wild, to be sure."

"'A little wild!' He is enough to break Miss Sibby's heart!"

"I don't see why. He is no kin to her."

"No; but she loves him as if he were her only son. She liked to have cried her eyes out when he went to sea, you know."

"Yes, I know. And yet it was as good a career as he could enter upon. The merchant service is not so genteel as the navy, to be sure, but, then, it is really more promising, in a lucrative point of view, and a young man of no family need not mind about the gentility."

"Yet that is just what grieved Miss Sibby's heart—that her adopted nephew should be obliged to gratify his passion for the sea by entering the merchant service instead of the United States Navy."

"Poor Miss Sibby! It is hard to say whether her pride in her own descent or her love for her adopted nephew is her ruling passion," concluded Miss Grandiere, with a smile.

Their walk had now brought them to the borders of a frozen creek, on the other side of which stood a small farmhouse, surrounded by a few outbuildings.

This was "Forest Rest," or "Miss Sibby's," as it was frequently called.

At the open door stood a short, stout old lady, in a homespun brown linsey gown, a white apron, and a white cap.

She had seen the approach of visitors from her window, and had come out to welcome them.

"How do? How do?" she exclaimed, holding out both hands and shaking them, right and left. "How dee do? Why, I'm mighty proud to see you! Come in! Come in out'n the cold!" she added, as she led her visitors through the front door that opened immediately into the principal room of the house.

It was a large, homely room, with whitewashed walls, bare floor, large open fireplace, and two front windows, shaded with blue paper blinds. It was plainly furnished with a pine table, chip chairs, corner cupboard, tall clock, and all the usual features of the rustic parlor. Its great redeeming point was the glowing fire of oak logs that burned in the broad chimney.

"Come right here and sit down, and get a good warm before you take off your things. Make yourself comfortable, sez I! never mind looks," said Miss Sibby, drawing chairs close to the hearth for her half frozen guests.

"So Roland has come home, I hear, Miss Sibby," began Mrs. Hedge, as she stretched her benumbed fingers over the fire.

"Yes, he has, safe and sound; thanks be to the Lord! He got home the very selfsame day that young Le Force arrove; though nyther of them knowed anything about the other's coming 'til they met by accident at old Luke Barriere's store. Now, wasn't that a coinference? 'Truth is stranger nor friction,' sez I."

"Is he going to sea again, Miss Sibby?" inquired Miss Grandiere.

"Well, I reckon sooner or later he must go, if he won't do nothing else. A young youth must do something for a living, sez I; and if he don't do one thing he must do another, sez I. But I do hope next time as he may get a berth along of your brother George. When is Capting Grandiere expected home?"

"I don't know. He was at Rio de Janeiro when we heard from him last."

"Ah me! so far as that? That's on the coast of Guinea, ain't it?"

"No; Brazil, South America."

"Well, Lord knows that's far enough. I did hope as the Kitty would be coming home soon, and Roland could get a berth 'long o' Capting Grandiere. But there's nothing but disappointment in this world, sez I!"

"The worst case of disappointment I know of is that of poor young Leonidas Force!" said Mrs. Hedge.

"Now ain't it, though" chimed in Miss Sibby.

"To come home to meet his sweetheart, and find her just about to be married to another man!"

"And him a furriner! That's what makes me sick! A furriner! Them as has the least to do with furriners, sez I, comes the best off, sez I! It's all the gal's fault, too! She fell in love along of this furriner! And her father, he give in to her, 'cause she cried and took on! But, Lor'! what could you expect of the young thing, sez I? 'Trot sire, trot dam,' sez I, 'the colt will never pace,' sez I! And you may take my word for that."

"What do you mean, Miss Sibby? How do you apply the proverb to this case?" inquired Miss Grandiere.

"Why, don't you see? What did her daddy do? 'Stead o' marrying of some old neighbor's darter, like you, Miss Sukey——"

"No, I thank you!" put in Miss Grandiere.

"Or me," continued Miss Sibby, without noticing the interruption, "or some other, as everybody knows all about, what did he go and do? Why, he went 'way out yonder to the Devil's Icy Peak, summers, and married of a stranger and a furriner, and a heathen and a pagan, for aught he knew! and fetches of her home here to us! That's what her daddy did! And now, what did her mammy do? Why, 'stead o' marrying of one of her own countrymen and kinsfolks, she ups and marries a 'Merican man as was a stranger and furriner to her; and a heathen and a pagan for aught that she knew."

"But they loved one another; there is no question of that," pleaded Miss Grandiere.

"What if they did? That's the contrariness of it, sez I! What call had either of 'em be 'a loving of strangers and furriners and a marrying of them, sez I? And now the gal has done just as her father and mother did before her! Turned her back on her own kith and kin, and took up 'long of a stranger and a furriner, and a heathen and a pagan, for aught she knows, sez I! It's in the blood, sez I! 'Trot sire, trot dam,' sez I! 'and the colt'll never pace,' sez I! And now, ladies, if you have thawed out and will take off your bonnets and things, I will put them away. But maybe you would rather go to a bedroom?"

"Yes," said Miss Grandiere, rising and going to a door on the side leading into an inner chamber.

"Oh! stop. Don't go in there, please, Miss Sukey, I—I have got a strange lady in there," hastily exclaimed their hostess.

"A strange lady!" repeated Miss Grandiere, in surprise.

"Yes—leastways a strange woman. I don't know about a lady; for if you're not acquainted with a person, sez I, you can't tell if they are ladies or no. But come upstairs and I will tell you about her, or leastways all I know about her. Lor', I sometimes s'picions as maybe she's Roland's mother!"



CHAPTER XIX

A STRANGE WOMAN

Miss Sibby opened a door in the corner near the fireplace and led her visitors up a steep and narrow flight of stairs to a small upper chamber in the roof, which was lighted by one dormer window, and furnished very simply with a bedstead, a chest of drawers, a washstand, and two cane chairs.

"Now, you see, I'm very sorry to have to fetch you up here, where there's no fire; but that strange woman, you know, when she come, of course I had to give up my room to her, and so you see how it is," said Miss Sibby, apologetically.

"Oh! never mind. We shall not stay up here long enough to get chilled; but who is the woman, anyhow?" inquired Mrs. Hedge.

"Well, she is a widdy woman, and her name is a Mrs. Wright, and she come from Callyfoundland."

"California, do you mean?"

"Yes; I s'pose that is it. I was thinking of Newfoundland, where Roland made his first voyage, and I got 'em mixed. It's impossible to memorize all the places, sez I. Well, about Mrs. Wright. She was a passenger on board the Blue Bird; and, naterally, Roland being third mate, got acquainted long of her, and she was bound for Port Tobacco, where she had business in the neighborhood concerning her late husband's affairs, and so she come down from Baltimore long o' Roland, and he fotch her here, and what could I do, sez I? I couldn't turn her out'n doors, could I? And she and Roland are that thick together as I sometimes s'picions mebbe as she's his own mother; for, you know, nobody knows who Roland's people are—a child which was flung ashore by the sea when the Carrier Pigeon was wrecked."

"But if she was she would say so, wouldn't she?" inquired Mrs. Hedge.

"I don't know. I don't know. Sometimes I think I will ask her if she ever had a long-lost child. But, sez I, it's a delicate question, sez I, to ask of a strange woman, sez I. And so I think I'll wait and see how things will turn out. Anyhow, you'll see her at tea time, and Roland, too, and just you take notice!"

And so saying, Miss Sibby attended her guests—who had finished their toilets—downstairs.

A neat, old, colored woman was engaged in setting the table for tea.

"Put seven plates and seven cups and saucers, Mocka. I spects young Mr. Force will come in along of Master Roland," said Miss Sibby, as she once more seated herself among her guests around the fire.

Presently the inner door opened and a very fine-looking woman of about thirty-five years of age entered the room. She was a brilliant brunette, with a great quantity of rippling black hair covering a well-shaped head. Her features were, perhaps, rather coarse, her face and form rather too full, and her stature too low, but her eyes were large, black and beautiful, and shaded by long and very thick black lashes, and arched by heavy black brows; her mouth was large but well formed, plump and red, and her complexion was rich and beautiful beyond description. A strikingly handsome woman she would have been called anywhere. She wore a black silk dress, with fine lace ruffles at the throat and wrists; a pearl brooch and a very heavy gold watch chain.

She waddled into the room, with an easy, rolling motion, and nodded graciously to the company assembled there.

She looked doubtful, the sisters thought. She might be a lady, but—

As soon as she spoke all doubts were set at rest.

"Mrs. Wright, 'low me to introduce you to Mrs. Hedge, and to Miss Grandiere, also to little Miss Hedge," said the hostess, rising and formally presenting the stranger to her neighbors.

"Proud to know you, ma'am. Proud to know you, miss. Proud to know you, little miss. It is most seasonable weather for the season," said the stranger, bowing elaborately and smiling broadly on each of her new acquaintances—who all returned her greetings with quiet courtesy—and then seating herself in the armchair which had apparently been left vacant for her.

Both the sisters saw at once that the romance of Miss Sibby was not founded on fact, and that this woman could not have been the mother of the sea waif, Roland Bayard.

She chattered away incessantly about her voyage from San Francisco, her seasickness, the kindness of the young mate Bayard to her, and his great service in bringing her on to such a friendly house, and her intention to pay Miss Sibby very handsomely for the accommodation she had afforded her.

This latter clause, however, aroused Miss Sibby's ire. To talk of paying her! And in the presence of her genteel neighbors, too!

"No, ma'am!" exclaimed the old lady. "No, ma'am, you don't pay me nothing! Not if I know it, sez I! You're welkim, ma'am, sez I, to the very best in the house, as long as you choose to honor me with your company. But you don't pay for it! No, ma'am! No! Sybilla Bayard is poor enough, the Lord knows, sez I! And she has fallen far enough from her high estate, sez I! She who was descended from the great Duke of England; but she don't sell her hospitality, sez I! Not the descendant from the Duke of England don't, sez I!"

Poor Miss Sibby! Poor, simple old body! She was very much laughed at on account of her boasted ancestor, the "Duke of England." Yet her mistake was not so great as it seemed, for it was only the slight mistake of using the definite article "the" for the indefinite article "a," nor were her claims quite so ridiculous as they appeared to be, as will soon be proved.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am, I'm sure. I didn't mean no offense whatever! But—are you—descended from the Duke of England?" inquired the strange guest, opening her eyes wide with astonishment.

"I am," replied Miss Sibby, with great dignity. "And I'll prove it. My father was a Bayard, and his mother was a Barbar, and her great-great-grandfather was Henry Howard, third son of Thomas, Duke of England. These two ladies can testify to that, I reckon."

The stranger turned wondering eyes upon the two sisters.

Miss Grandiere answered by saying:

"Miss Bayard means a duke of England, and, as a mere matter of detail, the fourth Duke of Norfolk, one of whose younger sons came over in 1634 with the Calverts."

"Duke of Norfolk be hanged! Why, Norfolk is in this country, over yonder in Virginny somewhere, and we haven't got any dukes here! no, ma'am. My grandmother's great-grandfather was the son of the Duke of England!" persisted the old descendant of the Howards.

"But, my dear Miss Sibby, England is not a duchy!"

"Who said it was Dutchy! I know the Dutch come from Holland. I know something, if I am a poor, ignorant old 'oman, fallen from my high estate. And I know as I am descended from the Duke of England, and nobody shall take that prop from underneath of me! It has supported me in many a hard trial of life!"

"No, no one shall take it from you," said Miss Grandiere, yielding the point.

At this moment the door opened, admitting a fine, tall, dark-eyed and dark-haired young man, with a bright, merry, mischievous countenance.

He bowed to the ladies, threw his sailor hat upon the floor, and went and kissed his Aunt Sibby, and then lifted Rosemary in his arms and kissed her. Finally he shook hands again all around.

"Glad to see you back, Roland!" said Miss Grandiere.

"Welcome home, my boy!" said Mrs. Hedge.

"Did you get me a card to the wedding?" inquired the Widow Wright.

"Yes—that is, Le Force got it for me. I could not have got it, you know. Here are three—one for you, one for auntie, and one for myself," said the young sailor, displaying the elegant cards of silver letters on white satin tablets.

"Then you are all going to the wedding?" said Mrs. Hedge.

"Yes, I reckon so now; though dear knows I didn't expect no invitation. But I reckon it was a kind thought of that young Le to send me one," said Miss Sibby.

"I think it very strange that the young man should be able to take the least interest in that wedding. I should think he would keep as far from the house and as far from the church as possible!" said Mrs. Hedge.

"Why, he is going to be groomsman!" put in young Bayard, laughing.

"No!" exclaimed in one breath all the women except Miss Grandiere, who quietly remarked:

"It is, probably, as I suspected. That childish engagement amounted to nothing. The childish affection faded from both hearts, and the young man was as well pleased to be off it as the young lady was."

"Yes, mebbe so, indeed. But where is Le this afternoon? I thought as he was coming home with you," inquired Miss Sibby.

"No; he couldn't. He had something else to do," replied Roland.

While they talked the one servant woman of Miss Sibby was coming and going between kitchen and parlor, bringing in dishes of fried chicken and fried ham, plates of hot biscuits and India cakes, plates of pickles, preserves, butter, cheese and all that goes to make up the edibles of a rustic tea table for company.

When the teapot was brought in, last of all, Miss Sibby went to the head of the board, and heartily invited the guests to be seated.

They accepted without delay. And were soon too busily engaged with their teacups to carry on the conversation about the wedding. Each one of the company present could have testified that not one of their number slighted the delicacies set before them by Miss Sibby.

When tea was over and it was growing dark, Mrs. Hedge and Miss Grandiere arose to take leave.

Mr. Roland Bayard insisted on seeing them safely through the woods of Oldfield.

So, when well wrapped up in their warm outer garments, they took leave of Miss Sibby and her guest, and set out for Oldfield, young Bayard gallantly escorting the two sisters on their walk, and the negro boy, Dan, leading the horse on which Rosemary rode.

They reached Oldfield in good time.

Young Bayard declined their invitation to enter, but promised to call soon, and so bade them good-night at the door.



CHAPTER XX

THE WEDDING DAY

"Mother; Oh, mother! Give me something to help me to go through this day—something to stupefy—something to deaden me!"

It was Odalite's voice.

She had arisen from a sleepless bed, and come into her mother's room as soon as she had heard her father leave it.

She was, perhaps, the whitest, coldest, saddest bride that had ever seen a wedding morn.

Mrs. Force was standing before her dressing-glass, engaged in braiding her own bright hair. She turned and looked at her daughter again, with the often-recurring thought:

"Yes, yes, if it were not for her father's sake, I would rather dress my child for her burial than for this bridal."

She took the girl in her arms and kissed her, asking tenderly:

"What is it, dear?"

"Mother, I don't know. I dare not trust myself to go through with to-day's work. I have such strange, wild, mad risings in my heart, in my nerves, in my brain! I want something to overpower all this, and keep it down."

"My poor, poor darling! Oh, if I could suffer instead of you! Ah me! Must the innocent always suffer for the guilty?"

"You were never, never guilty, dear mother. And you also suffer. Ah! I see that you do. Don't grieve for me, mother, darling. Indeed, I am not—I am not——" She was about to add, "not unhappy," but truth arrested her words, and after a little pause she said: "I only want you to give me something to steady me. That is all." Then, seeing the anguish of the lady's face, she smiled wanly and added: "It will all be right, mother, dear. I know it will. I am trying to do my duty, and the Lord will not forsake me. It is only the—the wildness that comes over me. I want something to subdue it."

"Sit down, dear; sit down," said Elfrida Force, leading her daughter to the easy chair by the fire, and leaving her reclining there, while she herself went to her dressing-case and brought out that little vial of colorless liquid, that looked as innocent as the purest spring water, and yet contained death to a dozen strong men, if administered.

"A teaspoonful of this would give her peace forever," whispered the tempter. And the woman shuddered, and nearly let fall the bottle. She recovered herself, dropped half a dozen drops on a lozenge, and brought it to her daughter, saying gently:

"This will quiet you, my dear."

Odalite took it with a smile and put it between her lips.

The door opened and Wynnette and Elva came in in their nightdresses.

They had "resigned" themselves "to the inevitable," especially as they saw that Le had ceased to grieve over it, and had even consented to be the groomsman, while they were to be the bridesmaids.

"I am sure, if Le don't mind it, we needn't," said Wynnette.

"And, oh, what beautiful dresses we have to wear!" added Elva.

Now they had burst into their mother's chamber, in all the excitement inspired by the occasion.

"We went into your room, Odalite, and as you were not there, we knew you must be here," said Elva, running and throwing her arms around her sister's neck.

"All right this morning, Odalite?" inquired Wynnette.

"Yes," quietly replied the girl, upon whom the powerful sedative was already beginning to act.

"My children, go and get ready for breakfast. It is ordered half an hour earlier this morning on account of the wedding. We must be at the church by eleven o'clock," said Mrs. Force.

The two little girls scuttled away to hurry on their home clothes to go down to the dining room.

Mrs. Force had finished dressing herself, and now spoke to her daughter, who was still in her nightgown, reclining back in the chair.

"Odalite, you need not exert yourself to come down, dear. I will send you something up here. What shall it be?"

"Anything you like, mamma," languidly replied the girl.

The lady left the chamber and went down to the dining room, where she found all the family, with the exception of the bride-elect, assembled.

The bridegroom-expectant, who was still a member of the household, advanced politely, greeted his prospective mother-in-law and led her to her seat at the head of the table.

"Where is Odalite?" inquired Mr. Force, as he took his seat at the foot.

"I have left her in my apartment. She must not fatigue herself by making two toilets. I shall send her breakfast up," replied the lady.

"I hope she is quite well this morning?" said Col. Anglesea.

"Quite well," replied the lady.

And when she had served all her circle with coffee, tea, or cocoa, she called a servant to bring a waiter, and she prepared and sent up a dainty little repast to her daughter.

"The carriages will be at the door by ten o'clock, my dears, so you will please to be ready. It will take us full an hour to drive to All Faith. I hope the church will be well warmed," said the father of the family, as they all arose from the table.

"We will be ready in time," replied Mrs. Force, as they passed out of the dining room.

Leonidas Force looked so white and grim that little Elva paused behind the rest to speak to him.

"Le! Le! what's the matter? I do believe you do care, after all."

"Hush, Elva," said the youth, in a whisper.

"Le! if you do care, you can forbid the banns, on account of that engagement of yours. You can, indeed! Wynnette and I have been reading over the marriage service in the prayer book, and there is a place where it says, 'If any man here present can show cause'——You know why it shouldn't be done, it wouldn't be done, and there an end! And I am sure you could show cause, Le!"

"Yes, dear; but I won't!" Le replied.

"Elva! If you don't stir your stumps—I mean hurry up—you won't be ready in time!" called Wynnette, from the bannister above.

Elva broke away, and ran upstairs.

And then began the toil of the toilets.

Every bedchamber was occupied as a dressing room.

Col. Anglesea, under the hands of his valet, was preparing himself in his own apartment.

Le, in his little den, was dressing unassisted.

Mr. Force, in a little closet adjoining his wife's room, was shaved and brushed and polished up by Jake, his "body servant."

Mrs. Force, with the assistance of her maid Luce, first dressed her daughter Odalite, and seating her on her large easy chair, left her while she dressed herself.

Miss Meeke, in the children's room, first made their toilets and then her own.

By half-past nine o'clock all the women of the family were assembled in the drawing room waiting for the gentlemen and the carriages.

The white, cold, still bride wore a trained dress of white velvet, made high in the neck and long in the sleeves, and trimmed with swansdown; a wreath of orange blossoms; a veil of white Spanish lace. A servant stood near her holding a large white fur cloak, with hood and muff, to be worn in the carriage.

The two little bridesmaids wore dresses of white cashmere, also made with high neck and long sleeves, and trimmed with white satin. They carried large white woolen wraps, to be worn in the carriage.

Mrs. Force wore a rich purple velvet dress, with a bonnet to match, and an India shawl.

Miss Meeke wore a dark brown silk, and brown velvet jacket and hat.

The gentlemen appeared, and the carriages were announced almost at the same moment.

"Have you had foot-warmers put in the ladies' coach?" inquired Mr. Force of the servant in attendance.

"Yes, sah, an' in all ob 'em," the man replied.

"Come, my dear," the father said, taking the white fur cloak from the waiting woman and wrapping it carefully around his daughter before leading her out.

Col. Anglesea gave his arm to Mrs. Force, and Le to Miss Meeke, while the two little girls followed arm in arm.

Three carriages were drawn up before the house.

The bride-elect, with her father and mother, occupied the first; the two young bridesmaids, with their governess, the second; and the bridegroom, with his groomsman, the third.

And in this order they left the house and took the road leading to All Faith Church.

It was a clear, cold, bright winter day. Their road went through bare woods, up and down rolling hills, and across frozen creeks.

In the foremost carriage Odalite sat wrapped, as to her person, in manifold white furs; as to her spirit, in a dreamy reverie.

"Are you cold, dear?" her father inquired, anxiously.

"No, papa."

"Are you not feeling well?"

"Oh, yes, papa."

"You are so very quiet," Mr. Force said.

"That is natural. Let us leave her to herself, dear," Mrs. Force murmured, in a low tone.

An hour's slow drive over difficult roads brought them near All Faith Church, an ancient edifice standing in a large grove.

As they approached they found the road on each side encumbered by a moving multitude, all going in one direction, and growing thicker the nearer they came to the church. These were driving, riding, or walking. There were carriages of every description of gentility or of shabbiness; there were horses and mules, donkey carts and ox carts, all crowded with eager spectators, and there were many foot passengers.

"Surely you never invited all these people?" said Mr. Force, in dismay.

"I have not invited more than thirty; and these all have cards; but people do not need invitations; there is nothing on earth to prevent them from coming here and crowding the roads and the churchyard," Mrs. Force explained.

At this moment some ill-advised person raised a cheer, and the multitude took it up and cheered the bridal procession until the welkin rang with their roaring.

"Hip! hip!! hurrah!!!"

In the midst of all this the three carriages entered the yard and drew up before the church.

The parties alighted.

The father took his daughter on his arm and led her into the building, which was well warmed.

There, in the vestibule, he relieved her of her fur cloak, while her two little sisters, who were close behind, let down her train and smoothed the folds of her dress.

The style of the little country church did not admit of much display of pageantry.

The altar and the walls were decorated with evergreens and holly. That was all.

Mr. Force led his daughter up the aisle, followed first by the two little bridesmaids, and next by the other members of the party without much regard to precedence.

The rector, in full canonicals, stood within the chancel.

The bridal train, formed before the altar, bowed to the rector, and knelt on the cushions.

The crowd, with which the church was filled, arose in mass and stretched their necks to get sight of the proceedings.

The rector opened the book, and began the well-known ritual:

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here, in the sight of God and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony," and so forth.

When the minister concluded the exordium by the solemn warning:

"'If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak.'"

In the pause that now followed Elva looked imploringly toward Le.

But Le kept silence, looking as grim as the Sphinx. Apparently he saw no just cause to interfere; nor, apparently, did any one else.

The ceremony went on to the question put to bridegroom and bride, and which was answered by the former with a firm, distinct—

"I will."

And the latter with a steady, quiet—

"I will."

"'Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?'" demanded the minister.

Mr. Force stepped forward, took the hand of his daughter and placed it within that of the bridegroom, almost shuddering with a vague presentiment of evil, when he felt, even through her kid glove, how deadly cold and heavy that little hand was!

And the rites went on, and on, and on, and nothing happened to arrest them—no thunderbolt from heaven descended from the wintry sky to scatter the bridal party—no earthquake caused the ground to yawn and swallow them.

The rites went on, and on, and on, to their bitter end, where the voice of the officiating minister, assuming awful solemnity, concludes the ceremony with these warning words:

"'Those whom God hath joined together let not man put asunder.'"

"Yes!" shouted a voice, at which every one started, and the bridegroom grew pale. "Yes! That may be all very well as far as it goes! 'Whom God has joined together, let not man put asunder' by no manner of means whatever! But them as the devil has joined together a woman may put asunder, and she will, too, in double-quick time!"

This shocking interruption came from a short, stout, dark, but very handsome, and very well-dressed person, who, in great excitement, was elbowing and pushing her way up the center aisle toward the chancel at which the startled and affrighted bridal party stood.



CHAPTER XXI

A ROUTED WEDDING PARTY

Words cannot depict the scene that ensued.

Blank amazement marked every face save one—that of the bridegroom, which was dark with wrath and hate.

For a minute no one moved or spoke.

Then two gentlemen found voice at once.

"Who are you, madam? And why do you come here in this unseemly manner to interrupt this service?" gravely inquired the officiating minister, addressing the stranger.

"What is the meaning of this outrageous conduct, Col. Anglesea? Who is this woman?" sternly demanded the bride's father of the bridegroom.

Every man, woman and child in the congregation arose, stretched their necks and leaned forward to hear and see what was going on.

"The woman is a lunatic escaped from some madhouse, I suppose. She had best be arrested. Where are your constables?" growled the bridegroom, drawing the arm of his bride within his own and attempting to leave the altar.

"Stop that man!" cried the strange woman. "If you care for that girl's honor and good name, stop that man!" she vehemently repeated, placing herself directly in the path of the enraged bridegroom and his half-stupefied bride.

"Begone, woman! You are mad! Will some one take this maniac in custody?" fiercely demanded Anglesea, roughly pushing the stranger aside, and dragging Odalite after him, and trying to force his way down the narrow aisle, which was now fast filling up with the eager, wondering people from the pews.

"One moment, if you please, sir. Let me relieve you of my daughter, until this interruption shall be explained," said Mr. Force, taking the hand of his child, to draw her away.

But the bridegroom's arm tightened around his prey, as he haughtily replied:

"Pardon me, sir! You have no authority over Mrs. Anglesea. She is my wife, and under my protection. Let me pass."

"Not if I know it—you don't pass here! Not with that innocent girl on your arm, you don't! Your wife, is she? I see that, and go one better! And that's me! A man can't have two wives, can he, Mr. Parson? This ain't Utah, nor yet Salt Lake City, be it?"

"I think, Col. Anglesea," slowly began the rector——but the bridegroom cut him short:

"Your interference is not required here, reverend sir. Your ministry is completed. The marriage ceremony is finished. I hold my wife on my arm."

"Then this is a Mormon settlement, and a man can marry as many wives as he pleases, eh, gentlemen?" inquired the strange woman, looking around.

"Good friends! Pray let us pass!" the colonel expostulated, trying to elbow his way through the excited crowd that filled up the aisle, and seemed to wait with suspended breath the issue of the scene.

Two voices answered at once:

"No, sir. I think not. Mr. Force has asked for his daughter until this matter can be investigated," said Thomas Grandiere.

"Will you release the lady, at her father's demand, and save us the discredit of using violence in this sacred place?" inquired William Elk.

"Oh, my Lord, there'll be a fight!" exclaimed a voice from the crowd.

"Will some one be kind enough to take this mad woman in custody?" exclaimed Anglesea, beside himself with fear, shame and wrath.

"In custody, is it? If anybody is taken in custody, it is that man there! Yes, it is you I am talking about! It's you, for bigamy! I wish I had got a warrant out and fetched a couple of bailiffs to do it, too! Why don't you let this girl go? You might's well do it first as last. You'll have to do it, you know!" said the woman.

"Will you give me my daughter, Col. Anglesea?" quietly questioned Abel Force.

"No, I will not give you my wife!" fiercely retorted the bridegroom.

But at this moment the two sturdy Maryland farmers came up on either side of the man, and, each taking a firm grip of his arms, with gentle strength, released the half-swooning bride, who immediately dropped upon the bosom of her father.

"I shall hold every man here to a strict account for this outrage!" fiercely hissed the furious bridegroom.

"Quite right, sir! We will be at your service at any time," said William Elk.

Abel Force bore his unfortunate daughter off to the side pews, where her mother, her sisters and her governess had retreated, and where they sat, confounded and overwhelmed by all that had passed.

"Take her, Elfrida," he said, lifting the girl and laying her in the arms of her mother. "And do not allow that man to come near her. He has behaved badly in not giving her up, on my demand, until we can inquire into this matter. It may be that this strange woman is a lunatic, or an impostor. We shall see."

Mrs. Force made no reply. She could not speak. She took her daughter on her lap, as if Odalite had been a young child, and laid the pale cheek of the girl on her bosom, and motioned her husband to return to the group around the bridegroom.

"Odalite, darling, do not grieve. No wrong of any sort shall be done you. You have your father and your mother, dear, and our faithful love shall never leave you," said Abel Force, as he stooped and kissed his daughter's pale forehead, and walked away.

But Odalite made no sign.

"And you have us, darling, darling sister," said Elva, taking up and kissing one cold hand.

"And you have Le, as true as steel!" put in Wynnette.

"And, oh, I knew! I knew something was going to happen to stop it all! I didn't know whether it was going to be a forbidding of the banns, or an apoplectic fit, or an earthquake, but I knew something would happen," said Elva, taking the bride's other hand.

"'Some outlet through thunder and lightning,'" added Wynnette.

"Oh, why don't you speak? Why don't you say something, Odalite?" inquired Elva.

But Odalite gave no sign. She seemed stupefied, benumbed.

"Let your sister alone, my dears. Don't disturb her," said Miss Meeke.

Elfrida Force said nothing. She only recognized in this lethargy the merciful effects of the drug she had administered to her suffering daughter that morning.

Meanwhile, the scene before the chancel was becoming more exciting.

Col. Anglesea, furious, defiant, aggressive, but held in check by the surroundings; Abel Force, deeply offended, but self-controlled and dignified; Thomas Grandiere, dark, gloomy and determined; William Elk, red, fiery and threatening; and the strange woman composed, sarcastic and triumphant—formed a group around which the crowd assembled in the church were pressing as closely as possible.

"How dared you come here to make this scene?" fiercely demanded Anglesea.

"How 'dared' I? Humph! I like that! Do you think I'm afeared of you? When I have got the whip hand of you, too? I came here to take a hand in this here little game o' your'n! And I guess it's my deal now! And I rayther guess as how I shall turn up the little joker! We'll see presently!" laughed the woman.

Then, turning to the others, she said:

"Gentlemen, I came here this morning not to make a muss, but to prevent that roaring lion there—who is always going about the world seeking whom he may devour—from gobbling up that innocent lamb of a young girl; and I mean to stay here until I do prevent it. Yes! I'm talking about you, you beast!" she exclaimed, suddenly turning upon Anglesea. "And you better not show your ugly mug down in Wild Cats' Gulch, if you don't want to be stood on your head and druv down into the ground like a post, and buried alive! The boys are piping hot after you, they are, I tell you! It was them that put up a pile to send me on here after you!"

The woman was handsome, but short and stout, and, like Hamlet, "scant o' breath." She had talked herself out of wind for the moment.

Anglesea seized the opportunity, controlled his temper by an effort, turned to the gentlemen near him, and said:

"Friends, if that woman can be kept quiet for five minutes, I will answer, to the satisfaction of all here present—though I consider it an outrage that I should be compelled to answer one who ought rather to be arrested and sent off to prison for a most flagrant breach of the peace! Still, if she can keep quiet, I will do so."

"All right, old rooster!" laughed the woman. "It is your play now, and I give you your turn! Down with your best card!"

"Neighbors," continued Col. Anglesea, fully controlling himself, and falling into that confidential tone which he had always found so effectual—"neighbors, I call upon you, in common justice to me, to use your reason and judgment in this matter. You see this woman who has brought forward this most absurd, preposterous, and, I must say, humiliating claim to be my wife. For it is most humiliating, indeed, that any of you should have the faintest shadow of a suspicion that she may be telling the truth. Why, gentlemen, I am from England. She says she is from California. I never was in California in all the days of my life. I never set eyes on this woman before this hour. She is no more my wife than she is the empress of India. I call upon you to look at her, and ask yourselves if it is at all likely or possible that she could, under any circumstances, be—what she claims to be. You see her appearance; you see her conduct; you hear her speech; is it likely—is it possible—that I could have married such a person? You see the absurdity of the thing. No, gentlemen; this person is a lunatic, laboring under some fantastic hallucination, or she is an impostor, conspiring, with others, to blackmail me. I demand, in the name of justice, that she be arrested and sent to prison for her flagrant breach of the peace in her outrageous assault upon me this morning."

The colonel, who had completely mastered his emotions, spoke with such candor, judgment and authority that the men present whispered together, and seemed almost inclined to think that they had committed a shameful indiscretion in suspecting so gallant an officer and so perfect a gentleman of any impropriety, on the mere word of a strange woman, who was certainly not a lady.

The stranger saw the tide of sentiment, or of opinion, turning, and her black eyes sparkled, her blooming cheeks glowed and her red lips wreathed in a mocking smile, as she said:

"I declare! If you haven't played the right bower! And you have very nearly took the trick, only for my little joker. Here it is, gentlemen! See me take this trick! Here! Here's the joker!"

And, with these words, she took a folded parchment from her pocket, and handed it to the rector.



CHAPTER XXII

THE LITTLE JOKER

"What are these?" demanded the reverend gentleman, unfolding the parchment.

"Oh, it's only my little joker, that took his right bower and won the trick," laughed the woman.

"I don't understand," said the rector, while Abel Force, Thomas Grandiere and William Elk drew near and looked over his shoulders at the document.

"Well, read it, and then maybe you will understand. Don't you see it is the marriage certificate?" demanded the woman.

"It is, indeed," said the rector, examining the document. "It is, indeed, a certificate of the marriage of Angus Anglesea, colonel in the Honorable East India service, Anglewood Manor, Lancashire, England, and Ann Maria Wright, widow, of Wild Cats' Gulch, California, signed by the officiating minister, Paul Minitree, pastor of St. Sebastian's Parish, Sebastian, California, and witnessed by Henry Powers, Margaret Rayburn and Philomena Schubert! It is dated August 1, 18—. Col. Anglesea, what explanation can you give of this?" sternly demanded the rector, while the severe faces of the other men emphasized the question.

"Why, he can't give any! The joker takes every trick! It's the highest card in the pack, and I have just played it!"

"The thing is a forgery! I never was in California in my life! And I never set eyes on this woman before this hour! It is a forgery, I say!" exclaimed the colonel, so positively, so confidently, so authoritatively that the men were once more puzzled.

"Oh, it's a misdeal, then, is it? I'll prove that it isn't!" said the stranger. "Now, then, gentlemen, you can test the truth for yourselves. Money is no object to you, particularly in such a case as this. You can telegraph to the Rev. Father Paul Minitree, and ask him if this marriage certificate is genuine, and you can telegraph every word of the certificate, word for word. Ask him to compare it with the entry in the parish register of August 1, 18—, and to telegraph the answer, at your expense, mind you; and, though it will be expensive, it will be worth the money, and you won't mind the cost," said the woman.

This settled the question.

Abel Force, the man most deeply concerned of any man present, had made no violent demonstration. He had controlled his just wrath all through the scene. His reverence for the sanctuary had aided his habitual self-government in this ordeal.

Now, turning his back on Col. Anglesea, he said to Leonidas, who had been a silent spectator of the drama enacting around him:

"Go, my dear boy, and order the carriages. I shall take my wife and daughters home."

Le nodded, and went elbowing his way through the crowd—that made room for him—to do his errand.

"Col. Anglesea, we will hereafter be compelled to dispense with your society at Mondreer. Your effects shall be sent to the Calvert Hotel, subject to your orders," he said, turning for a moment to his late guest.

"Sir, you abduct my wife by violence! You do it at your own peril!" exclaimed the braggart.

The Maryland gentleman bowed gravely, but deigned no reply in words.

"Madam," he said, turning to the stranger, "if you will accept a seat in our carriage, and give us the privilege of your company at our house, Mrs. Force and myself would like to talk further with you on this subject."

"Oh, yes, thanky'! That I will! For I have got lots and loads to tell you about that grand vilyun! You needn't think I came here to stop the marriage because I cared for him! Not I! I'm that sick of the beast that the very sight of him is tartar emetic! What i' the name o' sense ever come over a purty gal like your daughter to take up with a man like him? And a man older and uglier than her own father? Good land! I didn't mean to say that! I beg your pardon, sir; I didn't indeed! I meant to say a man not nearly so young and handsome as her own father! That was it!" exclaimed the stranger.

Mr. Force bowed his acknowledgment of her apology, and then led her up to the pew occupied by his wife and daughters, and introduced her as follows:

"Mrs. Col. Angus Anglesea, my dear. Mrs. Anglesea, my wife, Mrs. Force; our eldest daughter, Miss Force; our younger daughters, Misses Wynnette and Elva; our friend, Miss Meeke."

When rather embarrassed bows and courtesies were exchanged, Mr. Force added:

"Mrs. Anglesea has been so kind as to accept an invitation to return home with us."

"Yes," put in the lady referred to. "Yes, your old man asked me, and I accepted, because I have got such loads and loads and loads to tell you about that grand vilyun. Didn't he come nigh doing for that lamb? Never mind, honey"—this to the half-conscious Odalite—"I know it seems hard for you, 'specially if you was fond of him—though why you should 'a' been—Lord! Anyhow, bad as it is now, it would 'a' been a heap worse if he'd 'a' married you and then you'd found out as he had another wife a-living."

Odalite took no notice of this speech. Wynnette answered:

"Oh, you needn't fret your nerves to fiddle strings about that—I mean you need not distress yourself, ma'am. She hates him, and so do I. And so does Elva. In spite of prayer book and catechism, we hate him. We can't help it."

"Eh? What's that you say?" inquired Mrs. Anglesea. "You hate him? Then why, in the name o' common sense, did she want to marry, and you all let her, for?"

"It was Old Scratch's doings—I mean it was Satanic agency," Wynnette explained.

At this moment Leonidas Force came up, and said to his cousin:

"The carriages are ready sir. I spoke to the rector, sir, and, with his leave, had them brought around to the vestry door, so that you can all go out that way, and avoid the crowd."

"Thank you, Le. Dear, kind fellow! It was very good and thoughtful of you. Come, love. Come, children. Le, give your arm to this lady. Mrs. Anglesea, let me introduce my relative, Mr. Leonidas Force."

"Oh, Lord! I know the fellow. Knew him before I knew you," said the woman, very unceremoniously appropriating Le's arm.

Mr. and Mrs. Force led the way, supporting their drooping daughter between them.

Le followed with the California lady.

And Miss Meeke and the two little girls brought up the rear.

They passed through the chancel into the vestry, where they found the rector had preceded them, to wait and offer such sympathetic condolence as he might.

"What do you think of this baseness, reverend sir?" inquired Mr. Force.

"It may be premature to judge before all the evidence is in, but it seems as if your late guest is an impostor, if not a criminal."

"I feel sure that there can be no doubt upon that subject."

"If I can be of any service, pray command me at any time," said the rector.

"I thank you very much. I think I will have to trouble you with two commissions. First, to tell our friends in there that, under existing circumstances, there can be no reception at our house to-day."

"I will do so."

"And, also, I must ask you to telegraph to St. Sebastian, as the woman advised, for further proof of her claim. Here is my pocketbook. Don't spare it in the cause. Could you spare an hour or two to come up to my house to-morrow?" inquired Mr. Force.

"I will take the time, and make it a point to be there."

"Come to dinner, if you please, sir. You know our hour," said Mrs. Force.

"Thank you, madam," replied the minister, without further committing himself.

Then the party took leave of their pastor, and went out by the back door to enter their carriage.

Abel Force handed his wife, his eldest daughter and their guest into the first carriage, which he entered after them, the party of four filling the interior.

Le handed Miss Meeke and his two young cousins into the second carriage, and followed them.

And the little procession left the churchyard, and took their way through the grove to the turnpike road leading to Mondreer.

Meanwhile, the whole congregation of wedding guests lingered in the church, and gathered into groups to talk over the strange events that had just happened before their eyes.

They were not disappointed, those wedding guests. Far from that. They had got so much more than they expected! They had not only seen the bride, the bridegroom, the bridesmaids, the bride's mother, and all their dresses, which had been made in New York, after the latest fashion; they had not only seen the whole marriage ceremony performed, and noted the demeanor of every one concerned in it, from the rector who read the rites to the smallest bridesmaid who held the glove; they had not only seen all these pageantries which they had expected to see, but they had seen a great deal more than they had bargained for. They had witnessed the performance of a startling drama in real life—the arrest of a marriage by the sudden appearance of the would-be bridegroom's wife.

Now, they had got a great deal more than they had looked for, besides having something to talk about all the rest of their lives.

They could not leave the church, though the dinner hour was at hand, and most of them had far to go to reach their own homes.

They collected in little crowds to discuss the interruption.

"Who was the woman, did anybody know? When did she come to the neighborhood? Had any one seen or heard of her before to-day?"

Such questions as these went around.

At last some one said that the stranger had been staying at Miss Sibby Bayard's for the last week.

And immediately Miss Sibby Bayard became the center of attraction and the most important person in the assembly.

The people crowded around her, plied her with a score of questions before she could answer one.

"Yes!" she exclaimed, at last, impatiently. "Yes! She has been staying at my house for five days past. She came from Califoundery, passenger in the ship where Roland was third mate. Yes! The boy fetched her to me, 'cause she had business in this neighborhood."

"Did you know the nature of her business?" asked the fiery, red-headed, hot-tempered, little William Elk.

"Never dreamed of her doing this here. Thought she was a widdy woman. Thought her business was money. Why, I fetched her to church this morning myself, without a notion that she wanted to come here for anything but just to see the wedding. And she was awful anxious to get here before the ceremony was begun."

"It is a great pity that you did not arrive before it was finished," said the tall, dark, gloomy Thomas Grandiere.

"So it were. I can't gainsay that. And so we should 'a' been here if it hadn't been for the stubborn nater of that mule o' mine; for, you see, I had no other conveyance, and had to drive my wisitor here in the cart. And, if ever Old Scratch got into a brute beast, he got into that mule this morning. Couldn't get him out of a creep to save my life! And he balked so, coming up Indian Creek Hill, that I thought he would have upset us into the water—and it froze over! So we didn't get here till after the ceremony was over. There, that is all I know about it! Miss Hedge and Miss Sukey Grandiere spent an afternoon and took tea at my house, along with her, and maybe they can tell you something," said the old lady.

And immediately she was deserted in favor of the sisters, who became, in their turn, the center of interest.

But these ladies had really very little to communicate.

Then the curiosity of the crowd took another direction.

"We were all invited to the wedding reception, but, of course, we are not expected to go now," said Mrs. Hedge.

"But it might seem like an offense if we didn't," suggested Miss Grandiere.

And people were divided on the subject until the rector appeared, requested a hearing, and, with the apologies and regrets of Mr. and Mrs. Force, announced that there could be no reception held at Mondreer that day.

So, at length, the congregation reluctantly separated and went home.



CHAPTER XXIII

MRS. ANGLESEA'S VISIT

It was late in the winter afternoon when Mr. and Mrs. Force, with their family and guest, reached Mondreer.

They were met by attentive servants, who were eager to behold the returning bride and bridegroom, and looked astonished to see the bride return in charge of her parents, accompanied by a strange woman.

"Where was the bridegroom?" was the question that their amazed faces put, though their tongues said nothing.

An accident must have happened. His horses must have run away and upset the carriage. Maybe he might be brought home on a stretcher presently. They curbed their curiosity until they could interview the coachman, who must know all about it.

They waited on the returning party in respectful silence.

"Miss Meeke, my dear," said Mrs. Force, as they entered the hall, "will you oblige me and take charge of our guest, and show her into the best spare room, where there is a fire, and attend to her comfort? Take Wynnette with you. You see, dear, that I have to give my whole care to my poor child here. Mrs. Anglesea, I am sure you will excuse me for a little while?"

"Oh, go along with you and look after the gal! She's 'most dead! How she can take on so after that beat beats me! Lord! there's no accounting for gals' whims! But there! go along with her. Never mind me; I can make myself at home anywheres!" exclaimed the visitor, beginning to pull off her overshoes then and there.

Miss Meeke and Wynnette invited and conducted her upstairs to the best bedchamber, situated in front of the house, with windows overlooking the bay; furnished with maple wood and blue chintz, and warmed by a fine, open, wood fire.

Wynnette drew an armchair to the fire, and made the panting guest sit down in it, while Miss Meeke looked to the washstand, to see if there were water and towels enough.

"I have to get one of you young ones to lend me the loan of a hair brush and comb, for I didn't bring any. If I had knowed I was coming, I'd 'a' done it. But, Lord! no one ever knows! And there! I have just remembered as I never took leave of that good soul, Miss Sibby! And whatever will she think of me, a-going off at a tangent in this onthankful manner?" meandered the woman, talking partly to her attendants and partly to herself.

"Oh, she will say you were so flambergasted by the rumpus—I mean confused and excited by the occasion—that you forgot to bid her good-by," said Wynnette.

"You will find new combs and hair brushes, and everything else you will require, on the dressing table, or on the washstand," Miss Meeke explained.

While the governess and her pupil were doing all they could to make the stranger guest comfortable in the spare room, Mrs. Force, assisted by her woman, Luce, and followed by Elva, supported her helpless daughter up to Odalite's own room, where they undressed and put her to bed.

Odalite soon fell into a deep sleep.

Her mother sat down by her bed to watch, and told Elva to go downstairs and help to entertain their guest; and told Luce to leave the room, but to remain within call.

When the lady was left alone with her sleeping child, and had time to collect her thoughts, she was divided between a sense of relief in her daughter's unexpected rescue from the martyrdom of an abhorrent marriage, and terror as to what the archenemy and artful plotter might do next.

Would he pocket his shame and go back to his own land?

Would he linger in the neighborhood, stubborn, defiant and aggressive, as he had shown himself in the church?

Above all, would he attempt to see her again, to get any other advantage over her from the power he possessed in the knowledge of her secret?

He could not insist on any marital rights over Odalite—that was quite certain now.

Would he demand money as the price of his silence? If so, he should have all the money she could command of her own by the sale of her jewels, laces and India shawls, on condition that he should leave the country.

And still her thoughts reverted to the great relief that she felt in the fact that he could no longer persecute Odalite. The proof of his former marriage in the substantial presence of his living wife forbade that.

This latter suggested another question:

What under heaven could have caused Angus Anglesea—certainly a gentleman by birth and position; certainly a man of cultivated mind, fastidious tastes and of refined manners, except when evil passions got the mastery and turned him, for the time, into a ruffian—what could have induced such a man to marry such a woman as she who claimed to be his wife?

In the midst of these speculations, the door opened silently, and Abel Force entered the room on tiptoes, and silently signaled his wife to come and speak to him.

She arose and went to meet him.

"How is Odalite?"

"She is sound asleep—so sound that you need not fear to wake her," replied the lady.

"But, is that sleep well? She was very lethargic in the church, I noticed. Had I not better send for a physician?"

"No, no, certainly not. Her sleep is well. It is the effect of an opiate I gave her. The best treatment under the circumstances. Do not feel the least anxious as to present or future consequences of this day's events. Believe me, our child will never break her heart for the loss of that unmasked villain."

"And yet he was a friend of yours, Elfrida?"

"Never! I told you so from the beginning of your acquaintance with him. I explained that he was my brother's friend, and that they were brother officers in the Indian campaign. I distinctly assured you that he was not my friend."

"Ah, I remember! Then it was his manner that misled me. Well, he is gone. Let him go. I hope he will soon take his departure for his own country. Great Heaven! Suppose the criminal marriage had been consummated before the discovery of the living wife had been made! Elfrida, I should have killed that man! Oh, my dear, it is not only the murderers who are criminally capable of murder!"

"Do not talk so, Abel. The temptation was saved you."

"By a hair's breadth only. It was a narrow escape!"

"Oh, no! The woman, I hear, had been in the neighborhood for a week past, watching him, no doubt."

"Then, why in the name of decency did she not make herself and her claims known to us sooner, and here, at the house?"

"I do not know, unless she wished to put him to a public shame. She says she has a great deal to tell us; perhaps she will tell us that."

"I shall ask for an explanation of that, at least. Well, my dear, I will leave you with our child. You will come down as soon as you can."

"I will join you at dinner," said the lady.

And, as her husband left the room, she went and resumed her seat by her daughter's bedside.

Wynnette and Elva, who had not at all changed their pretty bridesmaids' dresses of cream-white cashmere trimmed with satin, were seated at the piano in the drawing room, playing a duet for the entertainment of Mrs. Anglesea, who sat in a big, blue velvet rocker, and applauded whenever the music pleased her.

Miss Meeke had taken temporary charge of household affairs, and was out advising the servants.

The truth about the absence of the bridegroom had to be told some time or other, and so she told them then and there of the interrupted wedding, and of the identity of their new guest as the lawful wife of Col. Anglesea.

Though the faithful negroes were full of wrath against the impostor, and would have liked to hang him on a tree until dead, yet, upon the whole, they were glad of what had happened. They had never liked "the furriner," as they called Col. Anglesea, and they felt secretly delighted that he was not to marry their young mistress, to take her away to "furrin" parts.

"To go to want to marry our young mistress, and he wid anoder wife libin'! Oh, de wickedness ob mankind! But it is a habit dey gibs deirselves, child'en! 'Deed it is! Nuffin' 'tall but a habit dey gibs deirselves!" said Aunt Lucy, dogmatically.

"But 'bout de deception, miss?" inquired the cook.

"There will be no reception. The minister was requested to announce from the chancel that there could be none," replied the young lady.

"Lor'! Lor'! Lor'! An' all dem good t'ings to eat goin' to waste!" deplored the cook.

"They need not. Cakes and sweetmeats and candies will keep until they are consumed."

"Yes, miss; but de chickun sallit, an' de bone turkey, an' de pattydy four craws, dey won't keep till to-morrow, not even on ice."

"I suppose, then, that what cannot be consumed to-day must be lost. I see no remedy."

"An' whey we gwine to set de dinner table, w'en de dinin' room is all took up long ob de weddin' feas' spread out on dat yonder stension table? We ain't got time to take all de fings offen dat!"

"No, indeed, you have not. You had better lock up the dining room, just as it stands, to wait your mistress' orders, and set the table in the sitting room."



CHAPTER XXIV

THE FORSAKEN WIFE'S STORY

Having given her last instructions, Miss Meeke returned to the drawing room, where she found the new guest, extended at length on the blue, velvet sofa, with her chubby hands clasped under her head on one end and her stoutly booted feet elevated on the other. She was fast asleep and snoring sonorously.

Wynnette and Elva were standing gazing on her, with their faces full of guilty fear.

"What is the matter here?" inquired the governess.

"Oh, Miss Meeke," exclaimed Wynnette, "I'm afraid she's half seas over! I mean—I mean——"

"Elva, do you tell me what is all this—if you know," said the governess, seeing that Wynnette had broken down in her attempt to explain.

"Oh, Miss Meeke," said Elva, taking up the thread of the discourse, "when we finished playing the duet, she there on the sofa asked for a glass of wine, and Wynnette and I went ourselves to get it for her, and we went into the dining room, where the beautiful wedding table is set out and all the wines in cut-glass decanters on the sideboard. And—and—I am afraid—I know—we made a mistake and poured out a claret glass full of cognac brandy and brought it to her."

"And did she drink it?"

"Every drop! And she said it was proof brandy, and worth a bottle of common stuff! And then she talked a good deal, and then she lay down on the sofa, and went to sleep."

"I am very sorry. My dears, you should never meddle with the decanters. You should have called Jacob, who would have known what to bring."

"But Jake was not in reach. He was away down in the stable yard, talking to a crowd of grooms and other men and boys. I saw him through the back windows, and I knew he was telling them all about what happened in the church. Oh, Miss Meeke, do you think she will die? Oh, just hear how she snores! Will she wake up in fits?" cried Elva, in fright.

"No, my dear," said the governess, looking attentively upon the woman. "No; don't be alarmed. I think her condition is as much the effect of reaction from fatigue and excitement as of the brandy. Besides, she is wearing a tight dress, and lying in a cramped position, all of which obstructs her breathing. We must wake her up."

But at this moment Mr. Force and Leonidas came in, talking eagerly, and their abrupt entrance startled the woman out of her slumber. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, yawned loudly, asked where she was, and expressed a suspicion that she had been asleep.

Wynnette gave her Mrs. Force's bottle of sal ammonia that stood, by chance, on the sofa table.

Elva ran out and brought a glass of ice water.

She sniffed the salts strongly, with an:

"Ah! Ah-h! That's the sort!"

She drank the water audibly, and handed back the goblet, with a loudly drawn breath and an:

"Ah! Ah-h! Lord, Lord, what a day this has been!"

"I hope you have rested, ma'am," said Mr. Force, politely.

"Oh, yes; I'm all right now, thanky'! Where's your old 'oman and the gal? I hope they have taken no harm from that there rumpus?"

"None whatever. Mrs. Force will be down in a few moments."

The lady entered the room while he was speaking.

She still wore the rich purple velvet dress that she had put on for the wedding. In fact, no one had made any change in their costumes, except to lay off bonnets, wraps and gloves.

Dinner was now announced.

Mr. Force gave the stranger his arm, and led the way to the dining room, followed by the other members of the party.

As the dinner went on, each member of the family felt more and more wonder that Col. Anglesea should ever have thought of marrying the woman who claimed him. Handsome, good-humored and sensible she certainly was; but—she talked and laughed loudly, called the master and mistress of the house the old man and the old 'oman; loudly praised the dishes she preferred, asking to be helped to them three or four times; ate with her knife, dipping the same knife into the saltcellar or the butter dish; and, indeed, she shocked good taste in many ways.

How, indeed, could Angus Anglesea ever have married such a woman?

It was not until after tea, when the family party were assembled in the drawing room, and Mrs. Force had sent away the two little girls, in charge of their governess, that the story of that marriage was told.

There were present Mr. and Mrs. Force, Leonidas and Mrs. Anglesea.

They were gathered around the open grate, where a glowing fire of sea coal burned.

"Yes," said the woman, putting her feet upon the low, brass fender and drawing up the edge of her dress, to toast her ankles, "this is just as good a time to tell you all about it as any other, now that the young uns are gone to roost. I hate to talk about the wickedness of the world before the young uns; they will find it out quick enough for themselves, poor things! Well, you want to know what in the name o' sense ever possessed me to marry that beat, don't you?" she inquired of Mrs. Force.

It was not exactly the way in which the lady had put the question of the marriage to herself, but she bowed her head in assent.

"Well, then, my late husband, Zeb Wright, made a big fortune in the mines. Him and me was one of the very first that went out to the diggings. And he made his big pile by real hard hand work—and by none o' your blasting and crushing and lifting machines and things.

"And the year he died he had put away a hundred and twenty-three thousand, four hundred and fifty dollars in the Californy Miners' Saving Bank.

"And we might 'a' retired on that, but we was still in the prime o' life, nyther of us forty years old then—and I'm not now—and so he said we could go on for another ten year and make another hundred thousand, and then go back to the East and live offen it in grand style.

"But, Lord! who can tell what a day may bring forth, let alone ten year? One autumn day he came home to me, in our shanty at Wild Cats' Gulch, with a hard chill, and in two hours, just as the turn of the cold fit into the hot one, he had a little spasm and went right off.

"Well, I was all alone, having of no child'en. But the boys they was very good to me, and seen to the funeral and all that. And, after it was all over, I stayed on in the shanty, partly because I hated to leave it, and partly because the equinoctial storms had ris' the rivers and carried away the bridges, and made the travel between Wild Cats and St. Sebastian awful hard and risky.

"In that first year of my widdyhood, I had a heap of offers from one and another of the boys, for there wa'n't many wimmin there; but I snubbed 'em all.

"It wasn't till the next summer that I went to St. Sebastian to see about drawing out my money, or a part of it, to go East.

"Well, there at the Hidalgo Inn, I met with Col. Anglesea, and sorter got acquainted long of him. He had been out on the plains with a lot of English officers, a-hunting of the buffalo, or pretending to do it, and now he was on his way home, so he said—gwine to sail from 'Frisco to York, and then to Liverpool. He said as he had inwested half a million o' money in Californy. Lord sakes, how that man lied!

"Then, like a plagued fool as I was, with nobody to advise me—don't tell me about wimmen having any sense! They always get coaxed, or swindled, or scared out o' their money!—I goes and tells that blamed beat and cheat about my hundred and twenty-three thousand four hundred and fifty dollars, and asks his opinion how I ought to inwest it.

"And he tells me cock-and-bull stories about companies, and shares, and per cents. and things that I knew nothing about. And he wanted me to give him the money to inwest for me, and save me the trouble and 'noyance.

"But I wasn't quite such a donkey as that, nyther! I just wouldn't trust him with a dollar! No more would I sign any paper that he brought me. No, not one! Yet I did like the insiniwating creetur' to such an extent, even then, that I couldn't bear to hurt his feelings by seeming to distrust him, and so I always made some excuse for not doing what he recommended.

"After that he changed his course and began to make love to me! Lord, how that man could make love! Ask that gal of your'n! I reckon she could tell you!

"Well, I don't know how it was to this day! I must 'a' been bewitched! But I was such a cornsarned fool that I went and married him! And two weeks after that he levanted, with all my money! Leastways, all to a trifle of about twenty dollars, which I had about me in my room, and which just was enough to take me back to Wild Cats' Gulch. And, if ever you did see a chop-fallen cuss going home, that was me! The hotel people had even kept my boxes for my board!

"Oh, but the boys was mad when they heard all about it! They was 'most as mad with me for being such a fool as they was with him for robbing me. But they put me up to following of him, telling me if any one could run a man to earth, it would be an injured woman. And they put up a pile for me, and took my boxes out of quod, at the Hidalgo, and started me on my way to 'Frisco, for I knowed he had made for that port.

"And there I found out he had sailed in the Eglea for New Orleans, and I took the first steamer to that port. There I learned that he had stopped at the St. Charles Hotel for a few days, and had then gone to Savannah. Lord, what a chase I had! From Savannah to Mobile; from Mobile to Havana; from Havana back to St. Francisco. And there I heard that he had sailed for Baltimore!

"Well, I took passage on the Blue Bird, bound for Baltimore. There I made the acquaintance of young Roland Bayard, the third mate, who was very good to me. Well, we got to be such good friends that at last, one day, I up and told him all my troubles. And when he heard the name of my rascally husband:

"'Anglesea,' says he—'Angus Anglesea!' says he. 'Why, that's the man who is staying with a neighbor of ours down in Maryland. My old aunt wrote to me about him in the very last letter, which met me at 'Frisco.'

"And he took the letter out of his pocket and gave it to me to read, and, sure as a gun, it was my fine colonel as the old aunty was writing about! And I said to the young man as I must have been put on a false scent to be running about among Southern ports, when he had gone North. And he said there was no doubt in the world that the man himself had put me on the false scent.

"Whether or no that was so, I thought it was very providential I had fell in long o' this young mate, and we got to be fast friends. And we laid a plot that we should say nothing about it, and he would take me to his aunty's, and I should go by the name of my first husband, Wright, and lay low and say nothing, for fear my colonel should find me out and run away again before I could nab him.

"Well, we reached Baltimore early in this month, you know, and young Bayard got leave and came home, fetching me along of him. And the fust news as we heard when we got here was as my fine gentleman was gwine to be married to a fine heiress.

"But Roland and I, we winked at each other, and never let on to a single soul as I was the colonel's lawful wife. We thought we'd just have lots of fun out of the game, anyways, and wait till the wedding day, when all the people should be in the church, and then—in the midst of his triumph—pull him down and disgrace him before all the world.

"Lord, we didn't mean to wait for the last minnit, when the ceremony was over, but to stop it at the very beginning, where the parson asks, 'if any one knows just cause,' you know. But that consarned beast of an old mule of Miss Sibby's wouldn't make time. There, that's all!"

At this moment a note was brought in and handed to Mrs. Force.

She opened it, and read:

"Notwithstanding all seeming proof, I solemnly swear to you that I never was married to the woman Wright; that I was free to contract matrimony when I married your daughter, and that she is my lawful wife. I must see you alone, when I will prove this to your satisfaction.

A. A."



CHAPTER XXV

THE GUEST SHOCKS HER HOST

Mrs. Force turned pale as death while she read the note. When she finished it, she stooped forward and dropped it into the red heart of the coal fire.

Then, averting her head, that no one might see the blanching of her face, she said, in a tone of enforced calmness, to the waiting servant:

"Tell the messenger that there is no answer."

The servant bowed and withdrew.

"What is it, dear?" inquired Abel Force.

"Nothing that needs attention to-night," she replied, with assumed indifference.

And Abel Force, thinking it to be some little domestic matter that might not be discussed before a stranger, and perfectly unsuspicious of anything secret or serious—thinking no evil—dropped the subject then and there, and forgot.

"Ah-h-h! Yaw-w-w! I never was so tired and sleepy in all my life before!" cried Mrs. Anglesea, throwing herself back in her chair, and stretching her mouth and limbs with a tremendous yawn.

"No doubt you are, madam. You have had a most fatiguing day. Permit me!" said Mr. Force, and he lighted a wax taper and put it in her hand.

"And what on earth am I to do with this, old man?" she demanded, between two gapes.

"It is to light you to your room," said Mrs. Force, answering for her dismayed husband. "Can you find your way, or shall I see you to the door?"

"Is it that fine room fixed up with maple wood and blue calico, where the gals took me to take off my bonnet and wash my face and hands?"