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New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

THE TRACY DIAMONDS

BY

MRS. MARY J. HOLMES

AUTHOR OF

“Tempest and Sunshine,” “’Lena Rivers,” “The English Orphans,” “Paul Ralston,” “Gretchen,” Etc., Etc.

NEW YORK

G. W. Dillingham Co., Publishers

MDCCCXCIX

Copyright, 1898, 1899,

By MRS. MARY J. HOLMES,

[All rights reserved.]

The Tracy Diamonds.

CONTENTS.

THE TRACY DIAMONDS.

PART I AND PROLOGUE.

CHAPTER I.
THE PROSPECT HOUSE.

The time was a hot July morning, with the thermometer at 85 in the shade, and rising. Not a leaf was stirring, and the air seemed to quiver with the heat of midsummer. The fog, which, early in the day, had hung over the meadows and the river, had lifted, and was floating upward in feathery wreaths towards a misty cloud in which it would soon be absorbed. Even the robins, of which there were many in the vicinity of the Prospect House, felt the effects of the weather and sat lazily upon the fence or the branches of the trees in which their nests were hidden. Only the English sparrows showed signs of life, twittering in and out of the thick ivy which covered the walls of what had once been a church, and was now used for public offices. It was a morning in which to keep quiet and cool if possible. “The hottest on record,” Uncle Zach Taylor, the proprietor of the Prospect House, said, as he examined the thermometer and wondered “What on earth Dot was thinking of to raise Cain generally in such weather.” The house was in a state of upheaval, and looked as if the annual cleaning was about to commence on a gigantic scale. In the back yard carpets were being beaten by two men, with the perspiration rolling down their faces, on the south and west piazzas furniture of every description was standing,—bureaus and washstands, tables, chairs and couches, with two or three old-time pictures in old-time frames. One was a representation of the famous Boston Tea Party. The Dartmouth, Elinor and Beaver were in close proximity to each other, their decks swarming with Indians breaking open chests and shovelling tea into the water. The others were family portraits, evidently husband and wife—she, small and straight and prim, in a high crowned cap with a wide frill shading her face—he, large and tall, with a black stock, which nearly touched his ears, and his forefingers joined together and pointing in a straight line at the right knee, which was elevated above the left. “A kind of abandoned position,” Uncle Zach was accustomed to say to his guests when calling their attention to this portrait of his wife’s great-grandfather, who assisted at the Tea Party, and gave, it was said, the most blood-curdling whoop which was heard on that memorable night. A blue cross on the figure of a man on the deck of the Dartmouth indicated which Zacheus had decided was his wife’s ancestor.

He was very proud of the pictures. “Wouldn’t take fifty dollars for em. No, sir,—and I don’t believe I’d take a hundred. Offer it, and see,” he frequently said. But no one had offered it, and they still hung in their respective places in the best room of the hotel except when, as was the case this morning, they were brought out and placed at a safe distance from the scene of confusion around them.

There were brooms and mops and scrubbing brushes and pails and the smell of soap suds in the vicinity of the wing at the west end of the hotel, where the fiercest battle was raging. Four women, with their sleeves rolled up and towels on their heads, were making a terrible onslaught on something, no one could tell what, for there was neither dust nor dirt to be seen.

“But, Lord land, it’s Dot’s way to scrub, and you can no more stop her than you can the wind. She’s great on cleaning house, Dot is, and you can’t control wimmen, so I let ’em slide,” Uncle Zach said to a young man whom, after his examination of the thermometer, he found on the north piazza, fanning himself with a newspaper and occasionally sipping lemonade through a straw and trying to get interested in Browning’s Sordello. After reading a page or two and failing to catch the meaning, he closed the book and welcomed Uncle Zach with a smile as he sank panting into a rocking chair much too large for him, for he was as small of stature as the Zacheus for whom he was named, and whose clothes he might have worn had they been handed down to so late a date as the 19th century. “This I call comfortable, and somethin’ like it. How be you feelin’ to-day? You don’t look quite as pimpin as you did two weeks ago, when you come here,” he said to the young man, who replied that he didn’t feel pimpin at all,—that the air was doing him good, and in a short time he hoped to be as well as ever.

Had you looked on the hotel register you would have seen the name, Craig Mason, Boston, and above it that of Mrs. Henry Mason, his mother. Craig had never been very strong, and during his college course at Yale, had applied himself so closely to study that his health had suffered from it, and soon after he was graduated he had come to Ridgefield, hoping much from the pure air and quiet he would find there. Nor could he have found a more favorable spot for nerves unstrung and a tired brain.

Just where Ridgefield is does not matter. There is such a place, and it lies on the Boston and Albany Railroad, which keeps it in touch with the world outside and saves it from stagnation. It is a typical New England town, full of rocks and hills and leafy woods, through which pleasant roads lead off and up to isolated farmhouses, some of them a hundred years old and more, and all with slanting roofs, big chimneys and low ceilings and little panes of glass.

These are the houses from which the young generation, tired of the barren soil and hard labor which yields so little in return, emigrates to broader fields of action and a more stirring life, but to which the father and the mother, to whom every tree and shrub is dear, because identified with their early married life, cling with a tenacity which only death can sever.

A river has its rise somewhere among the hills, and there are little ponds or lakes where in summer the white lilies grow in great profusion, and where in winter the girls and boys skate on moonlight nights, and men cut great blocks of ice for the Prospect House, which in July and August attracts many city people to its cool, roomy quarters. The house was built before the railroad was thought of, and in the days when stages plied between Boston and Albany and made it their stopping place for refreshments and change of horses. It was called a tavern when Zacheus Taylor brought his wife Dorothy there and became its owner. “Taylor’s Tavern” he christened it, and that name was on the creaking black sign in large white letters, and the little man always rubbed his hands together with pride when he looked at it and remembered that he was the Taylor whose name could be distinctly seen at a distance as you came up the street either from the east or the west. “A kind of beacon light,” he used to say, “tellin’ the played out traveler that there is rest for the weary at Taylor’s tavern.”

It was a pleasant sight to see him greet his guests with the cheery words, “Glad to see you. How are you? All fired tired, I know. Walk right in to the settin’ room. Dotty has got dinner most ready. Dotty is my wife, and I am Mr. Taylor,” with a nod towards the spot where Taylor’s Tavern swung. But if he were the Taylor, Dorothy was to all intents and purposes the Tavern,—the man of the house, who had managed everything from the time she took possession of her new home and began to understand that a clearer head was needed than the one on her husband’s shoulders if they were to succeed. Her head was clear, and her hands willing, and Taylor’s Tavern became famous for its good table, its clean beds and general air of homely hospitality. As years went by a few city people began to ask for board during the summer, and with their advent matters changed a little. There were finer linen and china and the extravagance of a dozen solid silver forks to be used only for the city boarders, and, when they were gone, to be wrapped in tissue paper and put carefully away in a piece of old shawl on a shelf in a closet opening from Mrs. Taylor’s sleeping room. Uncle Zacheus submitted to the silver forks and china and linen, but when, as his wife grew more ambitious, she told him that “Taylor’s Tavern” was quite too old fashioned a name for their establishment, and suggested changing it to “Prospect House,” he resisted quite stoutly for him. The change would necessitate a new sign, and “Taylor’s Tavern” would disappear from sight. It was in vain that he protested, saying it would be like putting away a part of himself. Dorothy was firm and carried her point, as she usually did. The sign was taken down and the sign post, too, for the new name was to be over the principal entrance to the house, as it was in cities.

The sign post Zacheus had carried to the barn and put up in a loft as a family relic and reminder of other days. The signboard with “Taylor’s Tavern” upon it was laid reverently away in the garret in a big hair trunk which had belonged to his mother and held a few things which no one but himself often saw, for Dolly did not interfere with the trunk. Carefully wrapped in a pocket handkerchief was a baby’s white blanket, and pinned on it was a piece of paper with “Johnny’s Blanket” written upon it. Johnny was a little boy who died when only three days old and his father had taken the blanket and put it away in the trunk with some articles sacred to boyhood, such as a pair of broken skates, a woolen cap, a cornstalk fiddle, withered and dried, but kept for the sake of the brother who made it and who had sailed away to Calcutta as cabin boy in a ship which was lost with all on board. Giving up the sign was harder than any one suspected, and when he felt more than usually snubbed he would go up to the hair trunk and look at it with affection and regret and as nearly as he was capable of it with a feeling that it embodied all the real manhood he had known since his marriage and with its disappearance his identification with the place had disappeared, leaving him a figure-head, known as, Uncle Zach, or Mrs. Taylor’s husband.

She was never really unkind to him. She merely ignored his opinions, and brought him up rather sharp at times when he displeased her. Henpecked him, the neighbors said, while he called it “running her own canoe.”

“Not very hefty,” was the most she ever said of him to any one, and whether she meant mentally, or physically, or both, she did not explain. “Shiftless as the rot, with no more judgment or git up than a child,” was the worst she ever said to him, and he accepted her opinion as infallible and worshipped her as few women are worshipped by the man they hold in leading strings. She had been his Dot, or Dotty, when she was Dorothy Phelps and measured only half a yard round her waist, and he called her Dot still when she weighed two hundred and could throw him across the street. What she did was right, and after the burial of “Taylor’s Tavern” in the hair trunk he seldom objected to what she suggested, and when she told him she was going to improve and enlarge the house and make it into something worthy of its name, he told her to go ahead, and bore without any outward protest the discomfort of six weeks’ repairing, when carpenters and masons, plumbers and painters, transformed the old tavern into a comparatively modern structure of which Mrs. Taylor was very proud.

“I can advertise now with a good stomach,” she said, and every spring there appeared in the Boston papers and Worcester Spy and Springfield Republican, a notice setting forth the good qualities of the Prospect House and laying great stress upon its rooms and views. If the advertisement was to be believed, every woman could have a large corner room, with the finest view in all New England.

To some extent this was true; not all could have corner rooms, but all could have splendid views. If you faced the north you looked out upon what farmers call a mowing lot, where early in the summer the grass grew fresh and green, with here and there a sprinkling of cowslips, and later on lay on the ground in great swaths of newly mown hay, filling the air with a delicious perfume. Beyond were sunny pasture lands and wooded hills, and in the distance the church spires of North Ridgefield, with the smoke of its manufactories rising above the tree tops. If your room faced the east you looked up a long broad street, lined on either side with old-time houses, whose brass knockers and Corinthian pillars told of a past aristocracy before the steam engine thundered through the town and the whistle of a big shoe shop on a side street woke its employees at six o’clock and called them to work at seven. Here, nearly touching each other across the street, are gigantic elms, which tradition says were planted on the day when news of the Declaration of Independence reached the patriotic town of Ridgefield. Liberty elms they are called, and they stretch along for nearly a mile from east to west, and, making a detour, spread their long branches protectingly across the Mall which leads into the Common. To the south is the railroad and the Chicopee winding its way through green meadows to a larger river which will take it to the Sound and thence to the sea whose waters bathe another continent. If your room was at the west you looked at your right on grassy hills, dotted with low roofed houses and on pastures where spoonwood and huckleberries grow. At your left the headstones of the cemetery gleam white among the evergreens and tell where Ridgefield’s dead are sleeping, the tall monuments keeping guard over the gentry of brass knocker and Corinthian pillar memory, and the less pretentious stones marking the last resting place of the middle class, the bourgeois,—for Ridgefield draws the line pretty close, and blue blood counts for more than money. Near the willows and close to a wall so wide that the children walk upon it as they go to and from school are the old graves, whose dark, century stained stones have 17— upon them and are often visited by lovers of antiquity. Some of those who sleep there must have heard the guns of the Revolution and helped to plant the Liberty Elms which keep guard over them like watchful sentinels. The Ridgefield people are very proud of their old graves and their cemetery generally, especially the granite arch at the entrance with the words upon it:

“UNTIL THE MORNING BREAKS AND THE SHADOWS FLEE AWAY.”

This arch, with its background of marble and evergreens, is a prominent feature in the view from the west rooms of the Prospect House, and it was in these rooms that the battle of brooms and mops and soap suds was raging so fiercely on the hot July morning when our story opens.

CHAPTER II.
THE CAUSE OF THE BATTLE.

Mrs. Taylor’s advertisements had paid her well, bringing every summer a few guests from Boston and its suburbs, but New York had not responded, and until it did Dorothy’s ambition would not be satisfied. Boston represented a great deal that was desirable, but New York represented more.

“Why don’t you advertise in the New York papers?” Mark Hilton, the head clerk and real head of the house after herself, said to her, with the result that he was authorized to write an advertisement and have it inserted in as many New York papers as he thought best.

Three days later there appeared in several dailies a notice which would have startled Mrs. Taylor if she had seen it before it left Mark’s hands. It did throw Zacheus off his base when he at last read it in the New York Times.

“Wall, I’ll be dumbed,” he exclaimed, setting his spectacles more squarely on his nose and running his eyes rapidly over the article. “Yes, I’ll be dumbed if this don’t beat all for a whopper. I shouldn’t s’pose Dotty would have writ it, and she a church member! Mebby she didn’t. Here, Dot,—Dorothy, come here.”

She came and listened wide eyed while her husband read and commented as he read. The scenery of Ridgefield was described in glowing terms. “Hills and valleys for pleasant drives, two ponds and a river for sailing, rowing and fishing; many points of interest, such as haunted houses, and the like.”

“That’s all so,” Zacheus said, “except the ‘haunted houses.’ There ain’t but one, and that’s about played out. Queer thing to put in a paper; but listen to the rest of the lockrum,” and he proceeded to read a description of the house, which was nearly as fine as if a Vanderbilt had planned it. The cuisine was first mentioned as unsurpassed, and superintended by the lady of the house. “That’s you, Dot,” and Zacheus nodded toward her. “That’s you, but what the old Harry is that cu-i-sine you superintend?”

Dot didn’t know, and her husband went on to the rooms, which were palatial in size, handsomely furnished,—hot and cold water,—with intimations of suites of apartments, each connected with a private bathroom and balcony. It didn’t say so in so many words, but the idea was there and Uncle Zach saw it and disclaimed against it as false. “Hot and cold water,” he said. “That’s great; only two fassets, and them in the hall under the stairs near the dinin’ room where it’s handy for the teamsters to wash up before goin’ to dinner; and what’s them suits of rooms, I’d like to know, with baths and things? It’s a fraud; only one bathroom in the house and that always out of gear and wantin’ plummin’,—and I’ve a good mind to write to the Times and tell ’em so. You didn’t have nothin’ to do with this, Dotty, did you?”

“No,” she replied, glancing at Mark Hilton, who sat in the office listening to the tirade and shaking with laughter.

“I wrote it,” he said at last, “and it is quite as true as most of the ads you see, and those rooms in the upper hall which open together are suites, if you choose to call them so.”

“Sweets! Who said anything about sweets? The paper called ’em suits,” the excited man rejoined, while Mark explained the sweets and cu-i-sine which had puzzled Zacheus more than the suits.

“I wanted something to attract New Yorkers,” Mark said, “and perhaps I did romance a little, but once get them here they’ll be all right.”

Partially satisfied with this explanation, but wondering why he should have mentioned the haunted house, with which, in a way, he was connected, and glad Dotty had nothing to do with the fraud, as he persisted in calling the advertisement, Zach gave up his idea of writing to the Times, and with his wife began to look for any result the advertisement might have. It came sooner than they anticipated in a letter from Mrs. Freeman Tracy of New York, whose grandfather, Gen. Allen, had lived behind the largest brass knocker and Corinthian columns in town and was lying under the tallest monument in Ridgefield cemetery. She had seen the advertisement, she wrote, and as she had, when a child, spent a few weeks with her grandfather, she had a most delightful recollection of the town and wished to revisit it. She would like a suite of rooms with bath adjoining for herself and daughter,—a smaller room near for her maid, and her meals served in her private parlor. She had just returned from abroad, and called it a salon, which puzzled Mrs. Taylor a little, until enlightened by Mrs. Mason, her Boston boarder, who, with her son Craig, was content with a table in the dining room. To be served in a salon was a new departure and if anything could have raised Mrs. Freeman Tracy in Mrs. Taylor’s estimation, the salon would have done it. This, however, was scarcely possible. The granddaughter of General Allen was a guest to be proud of without a salon, and Mrs. Taylor was thrown into a state of great excitement and Mark Hilton was told to write to the lady that she could be accommodated.

Here Uncle Zacheus interposed, saying he should write himself, and he did write a most wonderful letter! He would be glad to see Mrs. Tracy, he said, and would give her the best the house afforded. That notice in the paper overshot the mark some, but was none of his doings, nor Dotty’s either. Dotty was his wife. It was all true about the river and ponds and meadows and hills and views, but there wasn’t but one haunted house as he knew of and that was tumblin’ down. There was a good many places of interest, like old graves if she hankered after ’em, and an old suller hole where a garrison once stood, and as to the tavern, it was as good as they made ’em,—clean sheets, all the towels she wanted, spring beds, hair mattrasses, feathers if she’d rather have ’em, silver forks, too; none of your plated kind, and bread that would melt in her mouth. Dotty did all the cookin’ and washed her hands every time she turned round. The rooms was large and furnished comfortable, with a rockin’ chair in every one, and when they wanted to ride out in style he had two bloods, Paul and Virginny, which couldn’t be beat. But them elegancies the paper spoke on was all in your eye. There was only two fassets of hot and cold water, and the hot didn’t always work. There wasn’t any sweets, such as he guessed she meant, but there was some rooms openin’ together and jinin’ the bath room, which she could have, and she could eat her victuals by herself if she wanted to. He told her he knew her grandfather well,—had watched with him when he was sick,—sat up with him after he died, and did a good many things at the funeral. Signing himself, “Yours to command, Zacheus Taylor;” he handed the letter to his wife for her approval.

She didn’t approve at all, but for once her husband asserted himself and said it should go, and it went.

“We’ve heard the last from Mrs. Tracy we ever shall,” Mrs. Taylor said, but she was mistaken. Within three days there came a dainty little note written by Miss Helen Tracy, the daughter, and directed to “Zacheus Taylor Esq., Prospect House, Ridgefield, Mass.,” and was as follows:

“Dear Sir:—

“Your kind letter is received, and I hasten to write for mother and say that we shall be glad to become your guests. I know we shall be pleased, whether there are two faucets in your house, or ten,—one bathroom or twenty,—and you may expect us on Thursday, the —th day of the month.

Yours truly,

Helen Tracy.”

Not in years had Uncle Zacheus been as pleased as he was with that note. It was his own, which he could open himself and keep. He usually went for the mail which he took unopened to Dorothy, although it might be addressed to the “Proprietor of the Prospect House.” No one wrote to him; he was a cypher in the management of affairs and the correspondence of the house. But this note was directed to him personally. He was “Zacheus Taylor, Esq.,” and “Dear Sir,” and it made him feel several inches taller than his real height. He read it on his way home from the office, and then gave it to his wife with a flourish, saying exultingly, “I told you honesty was the best policy. They are coming without hot and cold fassets and bath tubs in every room. Read that.”

Dorothy read it while her husband watched her, holding the envelope in his hand and taking the note from her the moment she had finished it. It was his property, and after showing it to Mark and giving his opinion of Miss Helen Tracy as “a gal with a head on her,” he went up to the garret and deposited his treasure in the square trunk with Taylor’s Tavern and Johnny’s blanket and went down with a feeling of importance and dignity which showed itself in his going fishing after dinner without a word to his wife.

She was in a state of unusual excitement. She had heard of the Tracys as people who made a great show at Saratoga and other watering places and had never dreamed they would honor her. But they were coming, and her voice rang like a clarion through the house as she issued her orders and began to look over her linen and rub up her silver forks not in use. Four of them had been appropriated to the Masons. Four more were to be given to the Tracys,—possibly five,—as they were to have their meals in private, and paid handsomely for it. Finally, as the honor grew upon her, she decided that the whole eight were none too many for New Yorkers. They would look well upon the table, and she could hide them away at night from any possible thief. The rooms Mrs. Tracy was to have adjoining the bathroom were occupied when her daughter’s letter was received, and were not vacated until the morning of the day when she was to arrive. Consequently, there was not much time for preparations. But Mrs. Taylor was equal to the emergency and took the helm herself and gave her commands like a brigadier general, first to her maids, then to the carpet-beaters, and then to a small, fair-haired boy whom she called Jeff, and who ran for dusters and brooms and brushes, showing a most wonderful agility in jumping over pails and chairs and whatever else was in his way, and further exercising himself by turning summersaults when there was sufficient space among the pieces of furniture crowding the piazza. A box on his ears from a maid in whose stomach he had planted his bare feet brought him to an upright position, and he stood whirling on one foot and asking what he should fly at next.

Mrs. Taylor, who was mounted on a stepladder and passing her hand over the top of a window to see if any dust had been left there, bade him go up town after Mr. Taylor, who had been sent for a bottle of ammonia more than an hour ago.

“I don’t see where under the sun and moon he can be,” she was saying, when “I’ll be dumbed!” fell on her ear and she knew the delinquent had arrived.

“I’ll be dumbed” was his favorite expression, which he used on all occasions. It was not a swear, he said, when his wife remonstrated with him for using language unbecoming a church member. It was not spelled with an “a,” and it only meant that he could not find suitable words with which to express himself when he must say something.

When he left for the ammonia he knew a cleaning up was in progress, but he had no idea it would assume so vast proportions, until he found the piazza blockaded with furniture and his wife on a stepladder arrayed in her regimentals, which meant business, and which for length might almost have satisfied a ballet dancer.

“Come down, Dotty; come down. You’ve no idea how you look up there so high in that short gown. Shall I help you? I’ve brought you a telegraph,” he said, and his wife came down quickly, while he explained that he had stopped to talk with Deacon Hewett, and it was lucky he did, for he was on hand to get the telegraph the minute it was ticked off. He met the boy as he was leaving the office.

Mrs. Taylor took the telegram from him and read: “New York, July 15. To Zacheus Taylor, Esq., Prospect House, Ridgefield, Mass.: My niece is coming with me. Please have a room prepared for her and meet us at the 8 train instead of the 4.—Mrs. Freeman Tracy.”

“If this don’t beat all. Another room to clean. I’m about melted now,” and Mrs. Taylor sank into a chair and wiped her face with her apron. “Where’s Zach?” she continued. “I want him to help move them things out of the northwest room, so we can tackle that next. Where is he, I wonder. Find him, Jeff.”

Zach had disappeared. Mrs. Tracy’s telegram, addressed to Zacheus Taylor, Esq., was of nearly as much importance as her daughter’s note had been, and a second pilgrimage was made to the garret and square trunk where Taylor’s Tavern and Johnny’s blanket were hidden away.

“It kinder seems as if I was of some account to have them Tracys so respectful and callin’ me ’Squire twice,” he thought, and he went down stairs with a pleasureable sensation of dignity not common with him.

“Miss Taylor wants you,” the irrepressible Jeff said, rolling round the corner on his head and hands like a hoop, and nearly upsetting Zacheus as he landed on his feet.

“What is it, Dotty; what can I do for you? It’s most too hot to do much,” Zacheus asked his wife, and in his voice there was something which made her glance curiously at him.

She had intended to “blow him up” for never being around when he was needed, but she changed her mind and replied: “I did want you to help move the bureau and things from the northwest room, but Jeff will answer as well. You look hot. Go and rest yourself on the north piazza with Mr. Mason.”

The tone of her voice was nearly as exhilarating as Zacheus Taylor, Esq. had been, for it was not often that she spoke to him so considerately when on the war path, and it was with a feeling of great satisfaction that he took his way to Craig Mason and the north piazza.

CHAPTER III.
UNCLE ZACH AND CRAIG MASON.

Craig Mason was feeling tired and wondering how he was to pass the hot morning with no one to talk to and nowhere to go and nothing to see if he went there. His mother was spending the day at East Ridgefield, and, as most of the boarders in the house were men who had their business to attend to, he was rather lonely and sometimes wished he had chosen a gayer place than Ridgefield, where there was some excitement and now and then a girl to amuse himself with. Not that he cared particularly for girls as a whole. They were mostly a frivolous lot, fond of dress and fashion and flirting, and caring nothing for anything solid, like Browning. But they were better than nothing when one was bored. In college he had devoted himself to his studies and seldom attended the social gatherings where he would have been warmly welcomed and lionized, for his family was one of the best in Boston, and he had about him an air of refinement and culture which would have won favor without the prestige of family and wealth. The students called him proud and the young ladies cold and cynical. They did not interest him particularly, and, as he was not strong enough to join in the athletic sports of his companions, he kept mostly to himself in his handsome rooms and took his exercise behind his fleet horse, the only real extravagance in which he indulged. He had wanted to bring Dido to Ridgefield, but had been dissuaded by his mother, who said there were probably plenty of horses to be had,—that it might look airy and she hated anything like ostentation. So Dido was left at home and Craig had tried some of the stable horses and found them lacking. He had visited the library and the big shoe shop and had seen the crowd of girls and boys pour out of it at twelve and six o’clock, and wondered how he should like to be one of them, shut up in a close, smelly place for hours in company with Tom, Dick and Harry and their sisters. The last would have hurt him the most, for although courteous to every one, he was fastidious with regard to his associates and shrank from contact with anything common and vulgar, especially if there was pretension with it. Uncle Zach was ignorant and common, but he was genuine, and Craig had taken a great fancy to him. They had driven together a few times in what Uncle Zacheus said was the finest turnout in town, with his two blooded horses, Paul and Virginia.

“You’ve got to keep a sharp lookout or they’ll take the bits in their teeth and run away with you,” he said to Craig, who had expressed a wish to drive. “Mebby I’d better take the lines. Them white hands don’t look strong enough to hold such bloods as Paul and Virginny.”

Craig thought he could manage them, and wondered what Uncle Zach would say to Dido if he could once see her carry herself up hill and down with no sign of fatigue or need of a whip, while these plugs, as he mentally designated Uncle Zach’s bloods, had to be urged after the second long hill and stopped of their own accord to rest after the third, while at the fourth Uncle Zach suggested that they get out and walk “to rest the critters.” Craig took no more drives after Uncle Zach’s blooded horses, but he went rowing with him on the river once or twice and always treated him with a deference which was not lost on the little man.

“He’s a gentleman, every inch of him,” Mr. Taylor often said of him, and nothing could have pleased him better than his wife’s permission to join him on the north piazza.

Craig was glad to see him. He had given up Browning for the time being,—had nearly finished his lemonade, and was quite ready for a chat with his loquacious landlord, who, after inveighing against the propensity of women to clean house when there was nothing to clean, and inquiring after Craig’s health and declaring himself comfortable two or three times, commenced a eulogy on Ridgefield.

“The greatest town in the county, with the finest views and most notorious people and places. See that hill over there?” he asked, pointing to the west. “Wall, there’s the suller hole where the Injuns pushed their wagons of blazin’ hemp, and the garrison would have been burnt to the ground and the people scalped, if the Lord hadn’t done a miracle and sent a thunder shower in the nick of time. One of Dot’s ancestors was there shut up, so it’s true. Dot’s great on ancestory; goes back to the flood, I do b’lieve. She’s got the door latch of that old house. I’ll show it to you if you don’t b’lieve it. Yes, ’twas a miracle, that shower, like the sun standin’ still in one of our battles, I don’t remember which. In the Revolution, wa’n’t it, when Washington licked the British?”

Craig smiled and answered that he believed it was in the old testament times when Joshua was the general.

“Good land, I or’to know that, though I ain’t up in scripter as I should be, seein’ I’m a member in good standin’, though I hain’t always been,” Uncle Zach replied, and continued: “You know the meetin’ house across the street,—the Methodis’, I mean,—not the ’Piscopal, where you go.”

Craig said he knew it, and Uncle Zach went on: “I belong there; so does Dotty. We joined the same day. Dot has stuck, but I’ve backslid two or three times. I repented bitterly, for I mean to be a good man, but I’ll be dumbed if it ain’t hard work for a feller to keep in the straight and narrer way and run a tavern.”

Craig thought the share Uncle Zach had in running the tavern was hardly a sufficient excuse for backsliding, but he made no comment, and Uncle Zach went on: “I was goin’ to tell you about some of the noted folks,—moved away now,—but always had Ridgefield for their native town. There’s that Woman’s Rights and Temperance Woman, Miss Waters. Everybody has heard of her from Dan to Beersheby. Good woman, too,—and lectures smart about women’s votin’. I’d as soon they would as not. B’lieve the country’d be better off if they did, but I don’t want ’em to wear trouses. Miss Waters did a spell,—then left ’em off, and I’m glad on’t. Dot b’lieves everything she does is gospel, and I wouldn’t like to have Dot wear my trouses, s’posin’ she could get into ’em. A man or’to hold on to them, if nothin’ more. Then there’s another woman,—writes books, piles on ’em, the papers say, and if you b’lieve it some folks who came here are that foolish that they have my bloods, Paul and Virginny, and go over to see where she was born. An old yaller house, with a big popple tree at the corner. No great of a place to be born in, or go to see, but you can’t calcilate what city folks’ll do. I knew her when she was knee high and wore a sun bonnet hanging down her back, with the strings chawed into a hard knot. Knew her folks, too. She’s a lot of ’em down in the cemetery. Good honest stock, all of ’em, and belonged to the Orthodox church; but you can’t make me b’lieve she wrote all them books the papers say. No, sir.”

“You mean sold,” Craig suggested, and Uncle Zach replied: “Mabby I do, but it amounts to the same thing. If they are sold they are wrote, and nobody ever wrote so many. No, sir. I’ll bet I never read twenty books in my life, includin’ the Bible. Hello, Mark, what is it? Does Dot want me?” and he turned to his clerk, who came round the corner with a paper in his hand.

Mark Hilton, who had been in Mr. Taylor’s employ for three years, was tall and straight, with finely cut features and eyes which saw everything in you, around you and beyond you. Watchful eyes, which seemed always on the alert, and which might have belonged to a detective. Out of a hundred men, he would have been selected as the most distinguished looking and the one who bore himself with the air of one born to the purple rather than to the position of clerk in a country hotel. Nothing could be pleasanter or more magnetic than his smile and voice and manner. Craig had felt drawn to him at once, and, finding him intelligent and well educated, had seen a good deal of him during the short time he had been at the Prospect House. Uncle Zach adored him and treated him with a consideration not common between employer and employee. Pushing a chair towards him, he said: “Set down a spell and rest. It’s all fired hot in that office with the east sun blazin’ inter the winder.”

Mark declined the chair with thanks, and passing the paper to Mr. Taylor said: “Peterson is here again with the subscription for the fence on the south side of the cemetery. I have been to Mrs. Taylor, who is too busy to see to it, and she sent me to you, saying you must use your judgment and give what you think best.”

It was so seldom that Zacheus had the privilege of using his own judgment that he sprang up like a boy, and, taking the paper from Mark’s hand, read aloud, “Thomas Walker, ten dollars. Pretty fair for him. Miss Wilson, five dollars. Wall, I’ll be dumbed if she’s hurt herself with all her money. Why, the Widder Wilson could buy out Tom Walker fifty times, but she’s tight as the bark of a tree. William Hewitt, five dollars. Hello, he’s come round, has he? When they fust asked him to give towards the fence, he said, No. It was good enough as ’twas. Nobody outside the yard ever wanted to git in, and nobody inside could git out if he wanted to. Pretty good, wa’n’t it? I guess I’ll give ten dollars. I can afford it as well as Tom Walker. Widder Wilson, only five dollars. I’ll be dumbed!”

He wrote his name with ten dollars against it and gave the paper to Mark, who, with a nod and smile for Craig, returned to the office, while Zacheus resumed his chair.

“Maybe ten dollars is more’n Dot’ll think I or’to have giv,” he said, “but I have a hankerin’ after that cemetery. Johnny is buried there, you know.”

“Who is Johnny?” Craig asked, struck with the pathos in Mr. Taylor’s voice and the inexpressibly sad expression of his face.

Working hard to keep his tears back, he replied: “Johnny was our little boy who died when he was three days and two hours old, and with him died the best part of me. I’d lotted so much on what we’d do as he grew up. He’d been three-and-twenty if he’d lived, a young man like you, but I allus think of him as a little shaver beginnin’ to walk and me a leadin’ him, and many’s the time I’ve thought I heard his little feet and have put my hand down, so—and taken his’n in mine,—a soft baby hand,—and called him sonny,—and I—I——”

Here he stopped, while the tears rolled down his cheeks, and Craig felt his own eyes grow moist with sympathy for this child man, who, after a moment, recovered himself and continued: “You must excuse my cryin’. I can’t help it when I think of Johnny and all he’d of been to me if he hadn’t died. I tell you what, I b’lieve I’d been a good deal more of a man if he’d of lived.”

Craig had no doubt of it, and was trying to think of something to say when their attention was attracted to Mark Hilton, who was walking up the street.

“Look at him,” Mr. Taylor said. “Don’t he carry himself like a king! Sometimes I think Johnny might have looked like him, only not so well, maybe, and I don’t b’lieve he would have been better to me than Mark. Do you b’lieve in hereditary?—b’lieve that bad blood trickles along down from mother to son, and son to mother, and busts out somewhere when you least expect it?”

“Yes,” Craig said, “I believe in heredity and environment, too.”

“Envyrimen’? What’s that?” Uncle Zach asked, and Craig replied: “As connected with heredity, it means surroundings,—education,—influence,—circumstances.”

“Jest so,” Uncle Zach interrupted. “You mean the way one is brung up will offset bad blood. Mebby, but I don’t b’lieve in hereditary. No, sir! There’s Mark now,—the best and honestest feller that was ever born,—right every way. His great-grandmother was hung, with three more men, and my grandmother went to the hangin’, more’s the pity,—but there warn’t so many excitin’ things in them days as there is now, with a circus and caravan every summer, and a hangin’ was a godsend, especially as there was a woman in it,—a high-stepper, too. You see ’twas this way: You know about the haunted house half a mile from town, a little off the main road at the end of the lane?”

Craig had passed the house two or three times on his way to the woods beyond, and had looked curiously at its grey, weather-beaten walls and slanting roof, from which the shingles had fallen in places. Once he went close to it and looked through a window, from which every pane of glass was gone, into a large, square room, with a big fire place in it, and had wondered if it were there the young wife had sat that stormy night and heard her name called, while outside in the darkness the awful tragedy was enacted. From the wide hearth some bricks were loosened, and, while he stood there, a monstrous rat leaped out, and, followed by three or four smaller rats, went scurrying across the floor, the patter of their feet, as they disappeared behind the wainscoting and jumped into the cellar below, making a weird kind of sound which timid people might mistake for something supernatural. Craig himself had experienced a creepy kind of feeling as he left the old ruin and went next to look into the well, which had been a part of the tragedy. An old bucket was still swinging on a pole after the fashion of years ago, and he let it down into the deep well and drew it up full of water, which he fancied had a reddish tinge of blood. Hastily pouring it back, he heard it fall with a splash into the depth below, and hurried from the place. He had not been near the house since, and had never heard the full particulars of the story, which, now that Mark was connected with it, had an added interest, and he asked Uncle Zach to tell it.

Getting out of his chair, Mr. Taylor walked briskly across the piazza, saying, “It’s very excitin’ and harrerin’ in some places, and I must get braced up before I tackle it.” After a few turns, he declared himself sufficiently braced, and, resuming his seat, began a story which I heard in my childhood, and which in many of its details is true.

CHAPTER IV.
MR. AND MRS. DALTON.

“You see, ’twas this way, and it happened nigh on to eighty or a hundred years ago. This tarvern wasn’t built then. T’other one that was burnt stood further up the street and was kep’ by—I can’t think of his name, but he was one of Dot’s ancestors. Beats all what a lot she has, and what a sight she thinks of ’em. Got ’em all in a book, somewhere; the one in the portrait who helped throw over the tea,—and the one who pushed the carts of hemp against the garrison. I’ve turned him wrong side up, I guess, but you know who I mean. She has him, door latch and all,—and the one who kep’ the tarvern when Mr. Dalton,—Mark’s great-grandfather,—brought his bride to town. She was handsome as a picter, they say,—with yaller curls down her back and blue eyes which looked as innocent as a baby’s. She was proud as Lucifer; wasn’t willin’ to associate with any but the high bloods; walked as if the ground wasn’t good enough for her to step on with her little morocco shoes. Dressed up in the mornin’ as much as some do in the afternoon. But then she’d nothin’ to do, for she had a hired girl, Mari, who waited on her as if she was a queen. Had a pianner,—the fust there was in town, and folks used to go up the lane and set on the wall to hear her play Money Musk and Irish Washwoman and Bonaparte’s March, and some new things they didn’t like so well.

“Mr. Dalton was a first-rate man, fine looking and a perfect gentleman. Mark must be like him, and mebby that’s where your hereditary comes in. Everybody liked Mr. Dalton, and he had a kind word for everybody. He was rich for them days, and had some interest in the stages that run between Boston and Albany. The railroad wasn’t here then. ’Twas all stages, three a day each way, and they stopped at the tarvern to change horses. Them was lively times, and Dot’s ancestor made money hand over fist. Mr. Dalton paternized him a good deal. He used to go off in the stages sometimes and be gone a few days, but when he was to home he had nothin’ to do and sat on the tarvern piazza a sight talkin’ sociable with Dot’s ancestor, smokin’ and takin’ a drink now and then and treatin’ the other fellers. Everybody took a drink them days. W. C. T. U. wasn’t born. Dot’s one of ’em,—true blue, too. Don’t keep it in her cupboard for little private nips and then go a crusadin’ as some of ’em do. She hates it like p’isen, and if Johnny had lived she’d had him sign the pledge before he could walk. She’d no more let me sell toddy than she’d put her head in the oven. She’s right, too. I shouldn’t of backslid the last time if I hadn’t took some black strap and molasses for a cold. I like the stuff, and only Dot and the thought of little Johnny keeps me from drinkin’. But to return to my story.

“I guess you’ll think I’m goin’ ’round Robin Hood’s barn to git to it. Mr. Dalton worshipped his wife, and she ’peared to worship him, till there come up from Boston a dark complected man, a friend of the Dalton’s,—St. John, they called him, and he was there half the time talkin’ to Miss Dalton and playin’ the flute while she banged the pianner. The rest of the time he sat on the piazza at the tavern smokin’, takin’ drinks oftener than Mr. Dalton, but never treatin’ nobody. Mr. Dalton thought a sight of him. They was college chums,—Harvard, I b’lieve,—and when he went off on the stage he’d ask him to sleep in his house and see to Miss Dalton, who was timid,—the more fool he. And he did see to Miss Dalton, and drove with her and walked with her clear up to North Ridgefield, and didn’t get back till after dark. Folks began to talk and the women pumped Mari, who wouldn’t say nothin’, she was so bound up in Miss Dalton.

“After a spell another feller appeared, St. John’s vally they called him, and he brushed his clothes and blacked his boots, and walked behind him in the street, and went a good deal to the Dalton’s,—sparkin’ Mari, folks said, and I guess that was so. Wall, after a spell another chap appeared,—brother to the vally, they pretended. He didn’t go to the Dalton’s, but sat on the piazza and smoked and drank and swore about big bugs ridin’ over the poor, and was an ugly lookin’ cuss generally. Mr. Dalton was real good to him,—gave him money once or twice and tried to git him work. But he didn’t want to work. It warn’t that he’d come for.

“Wall, as I was sayin’, things went on this way with St. John and his vally and his vally’s brother comin’ and goin’, till folks was talkin’ pretty loud and sayin’ Dalton or’to be told, and finally Dot’s ancestor,—the one who kep’ the tavern,—up and told Mr. Dalton careful like what folks was surmisin’, and hinted that St. John shouldn’t go there so much. Mr. Dalton threw back his head and laughed the way Mark has when he don’t believe a thing.

“St. John was his best friend; he’d known him since he was a boy, he said, and his wife was a second pen—penny—something——”

“Penelope,” Craig suggested.

“I b’lieve that’s the name; sounds like it, though who she was I don’t know,” Uncle Zacheus replied, and continued: “The next day what did Mr. Dalton do but go to Worcester in the stage and buy her a silk gown that would stan’ alone, and a string of gold beads. Dot’s ancestor’s wife’s sister, or aunt, I don’t remember which, made the gown, and Miss Dalton wore it and the beads and a new bunnet to meetin’ the next Sunday, lockin’ arms with her husband all the way, and lookin’ up in his face lovin’ like with her great pretty blue eyes which had something queer in ’em, rollin’ round as if watchin’ for somethin’. I’ll be dumbed if Mark hain’t the same trick with his eyes, and that’s all the hereditary he has from that jade. She’d heard what folks was sayin’, but was jest as sweet and innocent as a lamb, and sent some flowers to Dot’s ancestor’s wife, who had said the most about her.

“Wall, I don’t git on very fast, do I? but, as I was sayin’, time went on, and it was summer again, and folks had kinder forgot. St. John wa’n’t in town, nor hadn’t been that anybody knew, unless it was Mari, who kep’ a close mouth. The vally wasn’t in town, nor the vally’s brother,—no more his brother than you are. That came out on the trial.

“Wall, there was an awful thunder shower one night,—struck the Unitarian Church and knocked the steeple into splinters, and rained till the gutters run like a river, and you could almost go in a boat the street was so full of water. Mr. Dalton was at the tarvern when the storm came up, and waited for it to stop. It was dark as pitch, and they tried their best not to have him go home. But go he would. His wife would be anxious and not sleep a wink, he said, and about eleven o’clock, when it had nearly stopped raining, he started with a lantern, and that was the last he was ever seen alive.

“I’m gettin’ to the p’int, and I shall have to take a turn or two more, for it is very affectin’ as you go on.”

He took a turn or two, and returned to his chair, saying, “I guess now I can stan’ it to tell you the rest.”

CHAPTER V.
THE TRAGEDY.

“Next mornin’, about eight o’clock, Mari come to the tarvern to know where Mr. Dalton was, that he didn’t come home.

“‘He did go home,’ says Dot’s ancestor.

“‘He didn’t come home,’ says Mari, ‘and Miss Dalton is dreadfully worried for fear he’s sick. Never slep’ a wink, and kep’ a candle burnin’ all night.’

“I don’t know what put it into his head to think somethin’ was wrong, but he did,—Dot’s ancestor, I mean, and why the plague can’t I think of his name! I know it as well as I do my own. Here, Jeff, you rascal, come here,” he called, as the boy came leaping across the end of the piazza like a young deer. “Go and ask Miss Taylor the name of her ancestor who kep’ the tavern when Mr. Dalton was killed.”

Jeff disappeared with a bound and summersault, while his master continued: “Queer boy that, but smart as a steel trap. He’s descended from Mari, who lived with Miss Dalton. A good boy, but queer motioned,—never stands still. Jumps round like a grasshopper,—turns summersets, one after another, till it makes you dizzy to see him. Reads all the trash he can git hold of about pirates and Injuns runnin’ through the bushes. Told the parson, when he asked him what he was goin’ to be when he grew up, that he s’posed he or’to be a minister, but he’d rather be a robber. Dot thrashed him for that and shut him up in the back chamber without his supper. But, my land, he was out in no time. Clum’ out of the winder,—slid down the lightnin’ rod and went rollin’ off like a hoop on the grass. Here he comes. What did she say, Jeff?”

“She said his name was Joel Butterfield, and she didn’t see what you was borin’ Mr. Mason with that story for,” was Jeff’s reply, as he went hippy-te-hopping away.

“Be I borin’ you?” Uncle Zacheus asked, and Craig replied: “Not in the least. I’m greatly interested, and shall be more so when you get to the pith of the matter. Pray, go on. Mari had come to ask why Mr. Dalton didn’t come home, and Mr. Butterfield, your wife’s ancestor, suspected something wrong. That’s where you left off.”

“Jess so; Joel Butterfield; funny I couldn’t remember his name. I did think of cheese. Wall, he was wonderful for smellin’ a rat, jess like Dot; she’s allus smellin’ things when there’s nothin’ to smell. Says he,—that’s Joel, I mean,—says he to Mari, says he, ‘Was anybody to your house last night?’ First she said there wasn’t; then she said there was, but she didn’t see ’em. ’Twas Monday, washin’ day, and Miss Dalton’s washin’s was big; allus wore white gowns in the summer. Had two in the wash that day, and four white skirts, and Mari was tired and went to bed early and dropped asleep at once. Bimeby she waked up and heard a man’s voice speakin’ to Miss Dalton, low like. Thinkin’ it was Mr. Dalton, she went to sleep agin, and didn’t wake till mornin’, but had bad dreams, as of a scuffle of some kind. When she asked Miss Dalton who was talkin’ if ’twasn’t Mr. Dalton, Miss Dalton said ’twas a stranger who wanted to see Mr. Dalton. She didn’t know his name, but sent him to the tarvern, where she s’posed her husband was, sayin’ he was to tell him to come right home, for she was afraid in the storm. This looked queer, and Joel and the bartender started post haste for the Dalton House.

“It was a beautiful mornin’, but it had rained so hard the night afore that the road in the lane was soft as putty, and they see plain the mark of wheels and horses’ feet which went up to the house, turned round, went out of the lane and off toward East Ridgefield. Joel noticed it and p’inted it out to the bartender, whose name I don’t know, and it don’t matter,—he was no kin to Dot. They went into the house,—Joel and the bartender,—and found Miss Dalton fresh as a pink in a white gown, with a blue ribbon round her waist and a rose stuck in it, and she a workin’ a sampler. Know what that is?”

Craig confessed his ignorance, and Uncle Zach explained: “They used to work ’em years ago in school, and at home on canvas with colored yarn or silk. Sometimes the Lord’s Prayer; sometimes a verse of scripter, but oftenest the names of the family, and when they was born. Dot’s got one, but she hid it away after she got to be forty. Wall, Miss Dalton set in a rockin’ chair, workin’ Mr. Dalton’s name, and when he was born, and lookin’ as innocent as the baby playin’ on the floor. I forgot to tell you there was a little boy two years old, with eyes like his mother. That’s Mark’s grandfather. When Miss Dalton see Mari, who came in fust, she asked as chipper like, ‘Did you find him? Was he there?’

“‘No,’ says Mari. ‘It’s mighty curis, too, for he started for home about eleven o’clock.’

“‘Yes,’ says Joel and the bartender, comin’ in behind her. ‘He started home at eleven o’clock. I’m afraid there’s been foul play somewhere.’

“‘Foul play,’ Miss Dalton gasped, and her face began to grow white, and there was a scared look in her eyes, which rolled round as if lookin’ for some place to hide.

“‘Yes, marm,’ says Joel. ‘Foul play of the wust kind. Whose buggy track is that up to the door and back, and off to the east? Who was here last night? They didn’t come to the tarvern.’

“Then she turned whiter, and wanted a glass of water, and told of the strange actin’ man who had asked for Mr. Dalton, and began to wonder if anything could have happened to her John. The bartender had gone into the yard, and was lookin’ round near the well,—one of them old-fashioned kind, with a curb and sweep and bucket. It is there now,—the well, I mean. Of course, there’s been a new curb and bucket.

“‘Great Scott’ says ’ee, faint like and sick at the pit of his stomach.

“All round the well in the mud and grass was the tracks of men’s feet, as if there had been a hard scuffle.

“‘Come here, for Lord’s sake,’ he called to Joel, and Joel come and seen the tracks all aimin’ for the well, and on the curb the muddy print of a hand as if some one had clung there fitin’ for life, and right under the curb what do you think was hangin’ on a nail?”

Zacheus was very dramatic and eloquent by this time, and pointed his forefinger at Craig, who was himself a good deal shaken, and answered under his breath, “Mr. Dalton’s hat!”

“Oh, my land,” Zacheus ejaculated, in some disgust. “A stovepipe hat on a broken nail! No, sir! The hat was found on the head of the vally’s brother, and on the nail was a piece of Mr. Dalton’s linen coat that everybody knew, and in the well stickin’ up out of the water and kinder lodged on the stones was one of his boots with his foot in it! Joel was that faint when he seen it that the bartender had to hold on to him to keep him from pitchin’ head fust inter the well.

“‘Here’s murder,’ says ’ee. ‘Mari, come here.’

“She come, with her knees knockin’ together and a lump in her throat as big as a goose aig.

“‘Mari,’ says ’ee, ‘where did you git water for breakfast?’

“‘From the spring, over there,’ pointin’ to the orchard. ‘Miss Dalton said she’d rather have the water from there, ’cause that in the well was low,’ says Mari, her tongue so thick she could hardly talk.

“‘Have you often got water from there,’ says Joel.

“‘No,’ says Mari, and ‘Yes, very often,’ says Miss Dalton.

“She had come out to where the tracks was in the mud, and was white now as her gown and leanin’ on to Mari.

“‘Miss Dalton,’ says Joel, ‘your husband is in the well.’

“Then she screeched so loud that some of the neighbors heard her and come runnin’ to see what was the matter, while she made as if she’d throw herself over the curb, but Joel catched her by her clothes and pulled her back.

“‘Oh, John, John. Is he dead? Get him out, somebody,’ she cried.

“‘That’s what we are goin’ to do. Who’ll go down after him?’ Joel said, and, as no one offered, he pulled off his shoes and stockin’s, and, tyin’ a rope round his waist, went down himself, clingin’ to the slippery stones, and got him up dead as a door-nail, with the marks of two big hands round his throat, as if he had been seized and choked till the life was out of him, and then been chucked into the well as the nearest place to hide him.”

At this point Uncle Zacheus became so excited and agitated that he was obliged to wait a few minutes before describing more of the terrible scenes which shook the little village of Ridgefield to its depths that summer morning, when the dead man lay upon the grass in his dripping garments, a bruise on his forehead where he must have struck a stone in his fall, and a look of horror in his wide-open eyes as he lay with his face upturned to the sky.

“Oh, John, who could have done this?” Mrs. Dalton moaned, as she knelt beside him, her arms across his chest and her long curls falling over his swollen features.

Unnoticed by any one, the little boy, Robbie, had crept down the doorsteps and came toddling across the yard to the group by the well.

“Papa, mam-ma,” he said, laying one hand on his mother’s head and the other on his father’s wet hair. “Papa, wake up. I’s ’f’aid,” he said, shaking the drops of water from his fingers and beginning to cry.

“’Twas awful,” Uncle Zach said, resuming the story and dwelling at length upon the picture of the little boy stooping over his dead father and trying to wake him up. “Yes, ’twas awful, and, though I’ll bet I’ve told the story over a hundred times, if I have once, I can never get over that part without somethin’ stickin’ in my throat and thinkin’ what if it had been Johnny and me, with Dot makin’ b’lieve. Oh—h,” and he groaned aloud;—then continued: “‘Oh, please somebody find the murderers,’ Miss Dalton said; and Joel answered: ‘You bet we will. We know ’em,’ and he winked at the bartender.

“They’d got the coroner there and half the town come with him, for the news flew like lightnin’, and the yard was full, and the fence was full,—the folks fightin’ to git sight of the tracks in the mud, and the well and the mark of a hand on the curb and the piece of his coat on a nail, and when they couldn’t do that they went and looked at the wheel tracks where the buggy turned in the lane, and then went back and fit agin to see the well. The women was mostly in the house where Miss Dalton sat wringin’ her hands soft as wool and covered with rings, her white gown bedraggled with mud and her hair flyin’ over her face, makin’ her look like a crazy critter. I tell you she stimulated grief so well that she could almost have deceived the very elect, and folks at fust didn’t know what to think. That Mr. Dalton had been killed was sure, and the verdict was wilful murder by somebody, and in less than ten minutes a posse of men with Joel and the constable started full run for Worcester. At a livery stable there they heard that a hoss driv’ nearly to death had come in towards mornin’. Who brought him the stable man didn’t know. It wa’n’t the one who hired him the afternoon before, but he paid the bill,—a big one, too,—the hoss was so used up, and he wore a stovepipe hat. That was Mr. Dalton’s, and the man was the vally’s brother. I b’lieve I could have planned better than they did, for they left their tracks so plain behind ’em that before sundown they was all three under arrest and an officer on the way to Ridgefield to keep an eye on Miss Dalton and Mari. They found Mr. Dalton’s gold watch in the vally’s pocket and his wallet and twenty-five dollars in the pocket of the vally’s brother. St. John was at a hotel with a cigar in his mouth, readin’ a paper as cool as you please and mighty indignant at being suspected of murder. He pretended to be awfully shocked at the news. Dalton was his best friend, he said, and he’d no more harm him than he would himself. He knew nothing about the movements of the vally or his brother. He was at the hotel all night and could prove it. This was true, but the vally’s brother gin him away by sayin’ to him low, but so as to be heard, ‘We sink or swim together; that was the bargain, and I’ve papers to prove it.’ They found ’em on him, too, and the three was clapped into jail, and Joel and his men and the officer got back some time in the night to Ridgefield, which next mornin’ was all up in arms wus than the day before.

“My grandmother lived here, and she said half the women was runnin’ the street bareheaded, and some with their sleeves up and their kitchen aprons on, tellin’ the news of the arrest to them who hadn’t heard it, and then makin’ a bee line for the Dalton house, where Miss Dalton still set in her muddy white gown, with her hair streamin’ down her back, and she as cold and white as a block of marble. She’d set up all night; they couldn’t make her go to bed, and when the men got back and she heard St. John was took, she turned blue, but never spoke nor stirred. In the room with her was the officer watchin’ her and Mari, who was in hysterics most of the time. They’d laid Mr. Dalton out beautiful in his best clothes, and Miss Dalton had been in to see him. They tried to shet his eyes, but couldn’t, and they was wide open, starin’ at you, and when Miss Dalton see ’em she cried: ‘Oh, John, John, don’t look at me like that,’ and fell down in a swound, and they didn’t know for a spell but she was dead.

“They made him the biggest funeral Ridgefield ever seen, and folks come for miles and miles around. Why, Joel took in for drinks and keepin’ horses more’n he’d took for months. ’Twas better than general trainin’, or a cattle show for him. Miss Dalton sat like a stone with folks starin’ at her as if they’d never seen her before, and that strange man always close to her. When she got back from the grave she was that wilted they had to carry her into the house and put her on the bed, where she lay, never movin’, nor speakin’, only moanin’, like some dumb critter in pain.

“They took her next day, and the screetch she gin when they told her she was arrested was so awful that folks in the road heard it; then she froze up ag’in, except when she looked at her little boy. They say ’twas touchin’, and made ’em all cry when she bid him good-bye, with him a sayin’, ‘Take, mam-ma; take me,’ and clingin’ to her dress she had on,—the silk one Mr. Dalton had bought her and the gold beads round her neck.”

Here Uncle Zacheus’ feelings so overcame him a second time that he could scarcely finish the story, and tell of Mrs. Dalton’s farewell to her baby and home and Maria, against whom there did not seem sufficient evidence to warrant her arrest. She would be needed as a witness later, and was left with the child whom Mrs. Dalton entrusted to her, saying, as she took his little hands from her dress and put them in Maria’s, “It is preposterous to believe they can find me guilty. But if the worst happens, and I never come back, take good care of Robbie, and tell him all the good you know of his mother.”

Then like some tragic queen she turned to the officer, and, with a proud toss of her head, said to him, “Sir, I am ready.”

She was all in black, with no color about her except the beads and her luxuriant golden hair, which showed under her widow’s bonnet like a gleam of yellow sunshine as she was driven away from the home she was never to see again. The trial which came on quickly did not last long. There were not many witnesses, and few were needed, the case was so plain. Maria was on the stand until she lost her wits entirely, and what she said one minute she contradicted the next. Only one point of any importance was brought out by her evidence. Mrs. Dalton’s name was Christina, which her husband shortened into ’Tina, and Maria testified that on the night of the murder, after she heard a man’s voice speaking to Mrs. Dalton, she thought she heard, or dreamed that she did, some one call “’Tina, ’Tina,” in what she described “a gugglin’” voice, like one in distress or choking.

Up to this point Mrs. Dalton had sat with her face unveiled, her youthful beauty enhanced by her widow’s weeds and her bright hair, telling upon the sympathy of the spectators. But when Maria repeated the name “’Tina,” as it must have been called that awful night by her dying husband, she covered her face with her hands and moaned, “Oh, Maria, in mercy stop before I go mad.”

Then Maria broke down and was taken from the room for a time, nor could any amount of questioning afterwards wring from her a confession that she ever observed anything wrong between Mrs. Dalton and St. John. He liked her,—she liked him,—and they played and sang together a good deal when Mr. Dalton was home, and more, perhaps, when he wasn’t. There was, however, sufficient evidence to convict Mrs. Dalton without Maria’s. The papers referred to by the man called by Uncle Zacheus the “vally’s brother,” and whose real name was Davis,—a recent convict from state’s prison,—contained a promise from St. John to pay Davis and his comrade, Brown, another convict, one thousand dollars to get Mr. Dalton out of the way. Davis, who, in spite of his unprepossessing appearance, was the least hardened of the two men, confessed that several plans had been suggested and talked over and abandoned, until he was getting tired and would have given up but for the thousand dollars, five hundred of which Mrs. Dalton had agreed to pay. The visit to Ridgefield that night was an accident. The horse had been hired to go to an intermediate town. On reaching it Brown had suggested going to Ridgefield to see how the land lay, as he expressed it. On hearing from Mrs. Dalton that her husband was at the hotel, and that she was expecting him home when the storm was over, they decided that this was their opportunity, as no one knew they were in town, and, waiting in the darkness and rain, they accomplished their work. Taken as he was by surprise, Mr. Dalton uttered no cry as they grasped his throat, except the words “’Tina, ’Tina,” while the ’Tina called for gave no sign if she heard it.

She said she didn’t, but few believed her. The evidence against her as an accessory to the murder was sufficient to convict her, and with the three men she was sentenced to be hung. Efforts were made to commute her punishment to imprisonment for life, but public opinion was strong against her, and with her coadjutors in the crime she suffered the penalty of the law.

After the execution, which was public and which hundreds attended, a half brother of Mr. Dalton came to look after the property in the interest of his nephew. In accordance with Mrs. Dalton’s request repeated to Maria, who visited her once in her cell, the latter took charge of the little boy during his childhood, and for some time lived alone with him in the house, bravely fighting her nervous dread of the room where the body had lain, and her terror on wild, rainy nights when she fancied she heard her master’s voice calling “’Tina, ’Tina” through the storm,—the sound of a scuffle near the well, and the wheels on the grass as the murderers drove away. At last, overmastered by her fear, she left the house and the town, taking the child with her and going to Canada where her friends were living.

Gradually the tragedy ceased to be talked about, except when revived by stories that the house was haunted. It was rented at first, then sold by Robbie, who, after attaining his majority, came once to Ridgefield and was described as a fine looking young man, much like his father. There had been a stone placed at his father’s grave, but none at his mother’s, nor did he order one. He was there to sell his property, and he sold it and went away, while family after family occupied the house. If they did not believe in the supernatural they heard nothing. If they did believe in it they heard a great deal; a struggle by the well at midnight when the rain was falling heavily and the sky was inky black; a sound of wheels upon the grass; a choking call for ’Tina; stealthy footsteps across the floor, as if in response to that call ’Tina had gone to the window and looked out; and a child’s cry for papa and mamma, which came at any time, day or night. The mamma lay in her unmarked sunken grave and the papa under the shadow of the south wall in Ridgefield cemetery. Robert became a husband, a father and a grandfather, and he, too, died. Years passed and every actor in that tragic scene was dead, but its memory was kept alive by the house fast going to decay. For a long time it was unoccupied, and “For Sale” nailed upon the door, while the storms and the boys played havoc with it, inside and out. Then Mark Hilton, the clerk at the Prospect House, and great-grandson of Mr. Dalton, bought it for a song. He called it his ancestral hall, and said when he married he should bring his bride there and quiet ’Tina’s ghost, which still haunted it, clad in a soiled white dress, with her long curls down her back. He straightened up her grave and put a plain headstone to it with just her name, Christina Dalton, upon it. Some people censured him for this, and twice he found the stone lying upon the ground face down, where it had been thrown by some malicious or mischievous person. Without a word of comment he put it in its place, and whatever pain or humiliation he felt for his ancestor he made no sign, and held his head as high as if, through the vista of nearly a hundred years, no dark crime was looming which could in any possible way touch his good name. He had come to Ridgefield as a teacher from Amherst College, where he had been for two years, and had taken his place among the best people of the town. Once or twice, after correcting an unruly boy, he found a chalk picture of a gallows on the blackboard in the morning, and, instead of rubbing it out, he drew a fair likeness of the boy artist dangling by the rope and left it there all day. There were no more insulting pictures upon the board, and his pupils treated him with great respect. But school teaching was not to his taste, and he finally gave it up and hired to Mr. Taylor, who was never tired of eulogizing him, and who finished his story of the Dalton house by saying: “There’s no more hereditary in Mark than there is in me. No, sir! His folks lived in New Bedford. Father was a sea captain and drowned; mother died a natural death, and left him a little money; not much, and he’s willin’ to do anything for an honest livin’. If there’s anything in envirymen’ he’s got it strong. Mari brought up his grandfather Robert and had him go to college. He was here once. The Daltons was high bloods and never took much notice of him on account of his mother. But, bless your soul, he wasn’t to blame for her any more than Mark is. Mari, who married in Canada, was a good woman, and great-great-grandmother to Jeff, who acts at times as if possessed with the devil; has some habits I don’t like, but he’ll git over ’em, for he’s a good boy on the whole,—well meanin’ and friendly. His name is Jefferson Wilkes. His folks is all dead and he was jest a wafer on the streets in Boston, turnin’ somersets for a penny a turn and sleepin’ in a big hogshead on the wharf at night when Mark found him. He’d kep’ track of Mari’s pedigree, tracin’ ’em down to the boy and was huntin’ for him. He asked Dot to take him, and said if he didn’t earn his board he’d pay the rest. He’ll get plenty of envirymen’ here, for Dot makes him toe the mark, especially Sundays, learnin’ the catechism and verses in the Bible, and boxes his ears when he don’t behave. Mark laughs and gives him a stick of candy for every box. Pays for it, though. He’s honesty itself. I’d trust him with all I own.

“Yes, Dotty. I’ll be there,” he added, as there came ’round the corner a call to which he always paid attention. “I’ll be back in a few minutes and tell you the rest,” he said, as he hurried away in the direction of the call.

CHAPTER VI.
EXPECTED GUESTS.

It was fifteen minutes or more before he returned, and taking his seat, began: “Dot is so flurried and upset about them Tracys that she actually consulted me. You know they are comin’ to-night?”

“Who is coming?” Craig asked, rather relieved with a change from the Daltons to the Tracys.

“Why, Miss Freeman Tracy, from New York,” Uncle Zach replied. “Her grandfather was Gen. Allen, one of our big bugs,—lived in the house with the biggest brass knocker, and has that tall monument in the cemetery. She’s comin,’ and that’s why the west wing is bottom side up, and Dot don’t know whether she’s on her head or her feet. It’s somethin’ to brag about havin’ Miss Tracy here. She wrote for a saloon to eat in. We’ve gin her the west parlor and four bedrooms for herself and daughter and niece and maid. None of ’em can sleep together. Nobody can nowadays. They are comin’ to-night, on the eight train.”

Craig had been greatly interested in the Dalton story, though a little confused at the last, with so much heredity and environment and so many great-great-grandfathers. Still he managed to get a pretty good idea of it and was deciding in his mind to visit the old house again and go through the rooms where ’Tina’s ghost was said to walk on stormy nights. At the mention of Mrs. Tracy, who was coming with two young ladies, his thoughts were directed into a different channel.

“I think I have heard of Mrs. Tracy. Is she very wealthy?” he asked.

“Yes, piles of money, with diamond ear-rings as big as robins’ aigs. I’ve never seen ’em, but some woman from here was at Saratoga last summer, and said they was the talk of the town, and she never let ’em out of her sight. I hope she’ll bring ’em. I never seen such stuns. I wonder what they cost, and what do you s’pose she wants of a maid here, when we cook her victuals and serve it?”

Craig did not reply. He was thinking of Mrs. Tracy and her daughter, who was a great belle and notorious flirt. He had heard of them at Saratoga as occupying the finest suite of rooms at the United States, where the daughter kept around her a crowd of gentlemen, whom she attracted or repelled as the fancy took her. He had only seen her at a distance, when it was impossible to tell just how she looked, nor did he care for a closer acquaintance, and when asked to call upon her had declined to do so. He detested flirts, and was not particularly interested in girls of any kind. Certainly not in Miss Tracy. Still he was glad she was coming. It would be a change, and he was getting tired with no company but Browning. There was no possible danger of his falling a victim to her wiles. He was not a ladies’ man, and if he were, a coquette of Miss Tracy’s style would be the last woman he should select for a wife. Of the niece he scarcely thought at all, except to ask Uncle Zach her name. Zacheus didn’t know. Mrs. Tracy telegraphed that morning that she was coming, and there must be a room for her.

“Probably a poor relation,” came into Craig’s mind, and the niece was dismissed from it. The daughter, however, occupied a good share of his thoughts as the day wore on, and moving his seat from the north piazza to the south, he watched the settling of the west wing, which the Tracys were to occupy, with a good deal of interest. Once, in passing him, Mark stopped and said: “You would suppose the queen of England was coming instead of a woman with nothing to recommend her but money, or family, which sometimes counts more than money.”

He spoke a little bitterly, and Craig wondered if he were thinking of his own tarnished heritage. If it is possible for the future to turn backward and touch those whom its events are to influence, it would seem as if it had done so with Craig and Mark. Both were exceedingly restless that afternoon, and their restlessness manifested itself differently. Mark went to the cemetery,—a very unusual thing for him,—and stood by ’Tina’s grave and looked at the headstone, with only “Christina Dalton” upon it, and for a few moments rebelled against the fate which had linked him with the dead woman at his feet. He had heard the whole story of the tragedy; not one particular had been omitted in the telling of it to him, and now, as he went over it in imagination, he took a different view of it from what he had ever done before. Any thing like heredity had never troubled him, the relationship was so remote. But the possibility came to him now, and he said to himself: “Her blood is in my veins,—strongly diluted,—but it is there, and under provocation might work me harm if I yielded to it. But I will not. I’ll be a man for a’ that. She was only my great-grandmother, or great-great-grandmother, which was it? Poor ’Tina. Perhaps she was not guilty. She said she was not, except for liking another man better than her husband. Other women have done that.”

The year before he had planted a white rose at Mr. Dalton’s grave. It was the running species, and one long arm had reached out and twined itself around ’Tina’s headstone, on the top of which was a half opened rose nestled among a quantity of leaves. Mark was fond of flowers, and cut the rose carefully from its stalk, intending to put it in the office.

“I guess there’s nothing of ’Tina about it,” he said, as he picked a few leaves and weeds from the grass on her grave, examined the stone to see if it were secure, and then returned to the hotel.

Craig had been differently employed. He always made some changes in his toilet before supper, and this afternoon he took a little more pains with it than usual, although it was not likely that he would see the ladies that night. As his mother was gone, he took his supper alone, and with his quick eye saw that two or three pieces of china and glass were missing. He might not have given it a second thought if he had not heard Mr. Taylor telling a boarder that the rooms for Miss Tracy were in apple pie order, and the table sot for supper in the saloon, with the best linen and china and silver. The missing articles were accounted for. They were adorning the table in the saloon. Boston had gone down in the scale, and New York was in the ascendant.

“I don’t object,” he thought, “so long as she leaves us a china tea cup. I should not like those thick things I see on some of the tables.”

After his supper he went round to the west piazza, and, walking up and down, glanced into the room where the table was laid for three, and looked very inviting with its snowy linen, china and glass. He recognized the cream jug and sugar bowl which had done duty for his mother and himself, and was glad they were there. It seemed right and proper that the Tracys, as new-comers, should take the precedence. He was getting quite interested in them, and when he saw there were no flowers on the table he asked Sarah, the house-maid, if she had forgotten them.

“We hain’t any but flag lilies, and I didn’t know as they’d be pretty. I’ll pick some if you say so,” she said.

He knew she meant the fleurs-de-lis, of which he had seen great clumps from his window. They were blue,—his color,—and he followed Sarah to the garden, where she gathered a large bunch of the lilies together with some young ferns growing near them.

“They do look pretty,” she said, admiring the effect, as she placed them in the centre of the table. “Be you acquainted with the ladies?”

“No, I am not, but I know city people like to find fresh flowers in their rooms when they go into the country,” Craig replied, and then, as it was nearly time for his mother’s train from East Ridgefield, he went to meet her.

As he was walking with her up the long hill from the station he told her of the expected arrivals, and asked if she had ever seen the ladies.

“Once when I called on some friends at the United States, in Saratoga, the mother and daughter were in the parlors, and were pointed out to me. I remember thinking them very showily dressed, and that Mrs. Tracy’s diamond ear-rings were quite too large for good taste. The daughter had half a dozen young men around her,” was Mrs. Mason’s reply, and her chin gave a tilt in the air, which Craig knew was indicative of her disapproval of the Tracys.

Craig told her of Mrs. Taylor’s elation on account of her distinguished guests, and of the removal of the cream jug and sugar bowl from the table to the salon.

“Boston is nowhere, and we may come down to two-tined forks and plated spoons,” he said laughingly, while his mother laughed in return.

She had no anxiety about the forks or the spoons, but she was a little anxious with regard to the young lady, of whose outrageous coquetry she had heard a great deal, and, mother-like, she dropped a word of warning.

“No danger for me,” Craig said. “Forewarned is forearmed, but I am glad she is coming. We want something to brighten us up.”

Meanwhile Mark Hilton had also made the tour of the west piazza, and glanced in at the table with its centrepiece of fleurs-de-lis and ferns.

“I didn’t know you had so much taste,” he said to Sarah, who was putting some napkins at the plates.

“’Twasn’t me; ’twas Mr. Mason thought of it,” Sarah replied, and Mark was conscious of a feeling of not wishing to be outdone by Craig.

“I’ll contribute my moiety,” he thought, and bringing the rose from the office, he placed it on the table.

It was very fragrant, and filled the room with perfume, and Mark smiled as he thought: “They can’t help noticing it, but will not know it came from ’Tina’s grave.”

It lacked but half an hour of the time for the New York train. The scorching heat of the day had given place to a feeling of rain. In the west great banks of clouds had obscured the setting sun, while growls of thunder, growing louder and nearer, heralded the storm, which came on so fast that by the time the hotel carriage was ready for the station the wind was blowing a gale, and the rain falling in torrents.

“Great guns!” Uncle Zacheus exclaimed as he saw one of the horses rear on his hind feet when a peal of thunder, which shook the house, broke over its head. “If Jake hain’t got out the bloods! They are as ’fraid of thunder and lightnin’ as they can be. He can’t hold ’em a minit. Somebody’ll have to go with him and see to the ladies. Mark, do you feel like it?”

“Certainly,” Mark answered, and Craig saw him in the hall a few minutes later habited in his mackintosh and wide-rimmed hat, which shed water like an umbrella.

Owing to the storm the train was late, and Mrs. Taylor was greatly worried lest her broiled chicken and coffee should be spoiled. She had put on her second best dress, with a pretty little cap and lavender bow, and with her white apron looked the embodiment of the buxom landlady, as she hovered between the kitchen and the salon and the front door, giving a sharp reproof to Jeff, who came sliding down the banister, nearly upsetting her as, with a summersault, he landed on his feet. Jeff was also interested in the expected guests, and if the future had stretched backward and touched both Mark and Craig, it had grasped him as well, making him seem more possessed than ever as he rolled around the house wherever there was room for his athletics.

“There they be,” he exclaimed, as the carriage drove up with Mark on the box, the water dripping from his hat and coat, for it was still raining heavily.

With a bound he sprang to the ground just as Jeff came darting out with an umbrella and opened the carriage door. On the walk were pools of water, and Mark’s feet splashed in them as he stepped to the side of Jeff just as one of the ladies put her head from the door and then, with a cry of dismay, drew back.

“I can never go through all that water; it is actually a pond,” she said, and Mrs. Taylor, who was holding a lamp in the door, felt sure that the voice belonged to the matron of the party.

“Let me assist you,” Mark said, and, taking her in his arms, he ran up the walk with her and deposited her in the hall.

A second foot was on the carriage step when he went back,—a very small foot,—though to which of the young ladies it belonged he could not tell. He had seen neither distinctly at the station, it was raining so hard, but he felt intuitively that it was Miss Helen whom Jeff was advising to keep still till Mr. Hilton came to fetch her.

“Oh, thanks; don’t drop me, please,” she said, putting her arms around his neck as if afraid of falling.

He felt her breath through the dampness of the night, and as Mrs. Taylor just then held her lamp higher, he caught sight of two bright, laughing eyes, and if he held her a little closer than he had held the older woman, it was not strange. He was young, and she was young, and would have flirted in her coffin had she life to do it.

“I hope you are not very wet. It is a nasty night,” he said, as he put her down by her mother.

“Not wet at all, thanks to your kindness; but please go back for Alice,” the lady said, as he showed signs of having forgotten there was another to be cared for.

Alice didn’t need him. Jeff was attending to her.

“I don’t want to be lifted. I’m not afraid of a little wetting; but hold the umbrella over me. I shouldn’t like to spoil my hat,” she said, and, gathering up her dress, she ran swiftly into the house, followed by a girl, presumably the maid, as she carried several bags and began to talk to the ladies in what to Jeff was an unknown tongue.

Mrs. Mason’s rooms were on the other side of the hotel, but Craig was in the office when the carriage drove up, and saw Mark carrying two of its occupants into the house, and saw a third dashing like a sprite through the rain under the cover of Jeff’s umbrella, while the fourth followed more leisurely. Bidding Uncle Zach goodnight, he went to his mother’s room and said to her: “The Tracys have come.”

CHAPTER VII.
THE TRACYS.

On a morning in June, before our story opens, Mrs. Freeman Tracy sat in her breakfast room looking over the papers, hoping to find some advertisement for a pleasant and inexpensive place in which to spend the summer. She had just returned from Europe, and her twelve trunks were not yet all unpacked. So far as real estate, houses and lands were concerned she was rich, but some of the investments on which she depended largely for ready money had failed, and she felt the necessity of retrenching for a time.

“Yes, mamma, but not here; let’s wait till we get home and are tired and glad to go into some poky little hole,” her daughter Helen said, when it was suggested to her that they take a less expensive suite of rooms in Paris than they were looking at.

In Florence, where they had spent most of the winter, they had occupied a handsome villa and entertained and been entertained on a grand scale. Horses and carriages and servants in livery had been at their command without stint, and Helen had been the belle of the season. Wherever she went she had taken precedence as the beautiful American to whom both her own countrymen and foreigners paid tribute. If a perfect form and features and brilliant complexion constitute beauty, she was pre-eminently beautiful, with the added charm of a seeming unconsciousness of her beauty. But it was only seeming. She knew her own value perfectly, and had spent much time in cultivating that naturalness and sweetness of manner which seldom failed when its object was to win either attention, admiration or love. Her cousin Alice said of her that a smile or a wink from her eyes would bring any man to her feet, no matter how callous he might be to another lady’s charms. To be surrounded by a crowd of young men, each one of whom was struggling for a chance to propose, while she skillfully kept him at bay, was a pastime in which she delighted, and in which she had been tolerably successful. At twenty-two she had received twenty offers, and could count at least twenty more who would have proposed had she given them a chance. She had their names in a blue and gold book which she called her “Blue Book.” Those who had proposed were in one column, and those who wanted to in another, with certain marks against them indicative of their standing in her estimation and the possibility of her winking them back if the fancy took her. There was also a third column with a few names of those whom she did not know, and whom she greatly desired to know. Heading this list was “Craig Mason, Boston; old family; woman hater; very aristocratic and reserved, and almost too refined to enjoy himself; does not wish to know me; does not like my style. Should very much like a chance to wink at him, as Alice expresses it.”

This entry was made the year before when she was at Saratoga, and nearly every young man from the different hotels had called upon her except Craig. He had been asked to do so by a friend, and had replied: “No, thanks; Miss Tracy is not my style.”

This in due time was reported to her, and although she gave no sign, it rankled deeply. She made no effort to meet him after that, and only saw him driving his famous horse, Dido, with his mother, who, she had heard, was very proud of her position as Mrs. Mason, and very watchful lest her son should make a mesalliance, or indeed an alliance of any kind. With her mother she was rather tired of travel. She had had a good deal of dissipation in Florence and Paris and London; had added a few names to her blue book, and had come home heart whole and exceedingly glad to be there.

“If it were the thing to do, and I hadn’t so many new dresses to show, I’d rather stay here all summer than go dragging around to the same places, stopping at the same hotels and meeting the same people, who say the same tiresome things,” she said to her mother as they were taking their breakfast at home after their return from abroad.

In this state of mind it was easier than it was in Europe for her to fall in with her mother’s proposal that they find some quiet place in which to spend a few weeks.

“If it is very dull we can leave at any time, and I may accept Mr. Prescott yet; I haven’t quite decided,” she said, as she sipped her chocolate, while her mother looked over the papers in quest of advertisements.

Mr. Prescott was the last man Helen had refused, but she had done it in such a way that she felt sure a word from her would bring him back. She always had some one on the leash in this way, marked in her book with a big interrogation, “so as to run no risk of being an old maid,” she said to her cousin Alice, who was her confidant in her love affairs, and knew the three sets of men whose names were in her “Blue Book” as possibles and impossibles.

“If you are going to some out of the way place, let it be very much out of the way, where there is no danger of seeing people, or being made love to. I’m so tired of it, and I really begin to think it is wicked. Alice says it is. Dear little chick; I don’t suppose any one ever made love to her. Strange, too, when she is so pretty and sweet.”

“And poor,” Mrs. Tracy added, while Helen continued: “I don’t believe that would make any difference with me. I could wink ’em up if I hadn’t a dollar. I’d like to pose once as a penniless maiden and see.”

“What nonsense,” Mrs. Tracy replied, and then suddenly exclaimed: “Here it is at last,—Ridgefield! My grandfather’s old home. Strange I’ve never thought of that place. Listen,” and she read aloud Mark Hilton’s advertisement of the Prospect House.

Mrs. Tracy, who had been in Ridgefield when a child, had some very pleasant recollections of the town, with its river and ponds and hills, which Mark described so eloquently. The palatial hotel, with its modern improvements, must be something new, she thought, as she had no remembrance of it. But times change, and Ridgefield undoubtedly kept pace with the times, and Mrs. Tracy thought she would like to go there, and said so to her daughter.

“Your grandfather was the leading man in the town, and we should undoubtedly be lionized by the people,” she suggested, while Helen shrugged her shoulders and replied: “Oh, mamma, do let me indulge in a bit of slang and say dry up on lionizing. I’m tired of it. If you want to go to Ridgefield I am quite willing. I only hope there isn’t a newspaper there, nor a reporter, to write up the beautiful Miss Helen Tracy; nor a man to make love to her. Such a state of things would be Heaven for a few weeks; then I should pine for the flesh pots of Egypt. Go to Ridgefield by all means. I’m in love with its scenery as set forth in the paper, especially the haunted house, which makes me feel a little creepy. Did you ever hear of it when you were there?”

Mrs. Tracy replied that she was almost too young to have such things make an impression upon her when she was in Ridgefield, but she believed she did hear of such a house and passed it with her grandfather,—a big old brown house at the end of a lane.

“Delicious! The very place for us. Write at once,” Helen urged, and her mother wrote to Mr. Taylor that morning, engaging rooms for herself, daughter and maid, and in two days’ time the postman brought her Uncle Zacheus’ wonderful production, which Helen read aloud with peals of laughter and running comments on his composition, orthography and honesty. “Perfectly rich,” she cried. “Rivers and ponds and meadows and hills and views and graves a hundred years old and a haunted house and a cellar hole where a garrison stood, I believe I’ve read about that, haven’t I? Alice would know. She’s up in history. And then the house; clean sheets,—think of it! All the towels we want! He don’t know that I use about a dozen a day. Silver forks, solid, not plated! That is something new for a hotel. Bread that Dotty makes, and washes her hands every time she turns round. Good for the bread; bad for the hands. Big rooms, with a rocking chair in each one. Glad of that. You won’t be getting mine. No real suites. He spelled it sweets. Dear old man! I shall fall in love with him if he doesn’t with me. Only two faucets, and those under the stairs. Can have a saloon to eat in. Good! That comes of your confusing him with salon. Watched with your grandfather, and helped at the funeral. That must make him related to us. Yes, mother, sweets or no sweets, faucets or no faucets, we’ll go, and I’ll write and tell him so.”

She wrote the letter which Uncle Zach put away in his hair trunk, and after it was gone turned suddenly to her mother and said: “By the way, now is your chance to carry out your promise to Cousin Alice. You have always been going to take her somewhere with us, and have never done it, because it would make our expenses heavier. Ridgefield is cheap. A whole week will not cost much more than one day sometimes did when we had the best rooms in the hotel. Let me invite Alice to go with us. Just think how poky and forlorn her life must be in that stuffy little schoolhouse among the mountains, with those children smelling of the factory and things. Can I write to her? She’s such good company and so helpful every way.”

After a little hesitancy Mrs. Tracy consented, and Helen was soon dashing off the following letter:

“New York, July — 18—.

“Dear Allie:—

“Here we are home again; landed five days ago, and I have such a love of a gown for you in some of my trunks. Cream colored, china silk, with puffings of lace and ribbons and everything. I had a gloriously good time abroad. Went everywhere,—saw everything,—was told a hundred times how handsome I was and how strange that I didn’t seem to know it! ‘The one beautiful woman I have met who is not conscious of her beauty,’ I heard an Englishman say to mamma. Oh! oh! oh! As if I didn’t look in the glass every time I pass it and say to the face I see there ‘You are lovely, but never give any sign that you know it, for this innocent baby way succeeds as well as your good looks. Not know it indeed!’ I have some new names in the blue book. One with a big interrogation point. ‘Walter Prescott, New York?’ That is the way it reads. His is the 20th bona fide offer, and mamma was furious when I refused him. Says I’ll go through the woods and take up with a crooked stick. Maybe I shall, but I tell you what; I am getting tired of seeing men turn white when I say no, and fencing to keep others from compelling me to say no. I am going to turn over a new leaf, and not wink, nor smile, nor try to get any one to look at me; and after a while marry Mr. Prescott and lead a perfectly domestic life. He neither dances, nor smokes, nor drinks, nor drives fast horses, nor likes society any way. Prefers a quiet home life, with his wife and his books. Is a great reader. I shall have to take up a course of study with you if I am to be Mrs. Prescott. I am a perfect dunce now and hardly know who discovered America, or shouldn’t if I hadn’t seen Columbus’ statue in Genoa.

“But to come to the object of this letter. Did you ever hear of Ridgefield? No? Well, that shows a lack in your education. It’s a lovely town, famous principally because my grandfather, Gen. Allen, lived and died and is buried there, and Zacheus Taylor watched with him the night he died and keeps the Prospect House, a perfectly delicious house, with all the towels you want, and silver forks and two faucets and blooded horses, Paul and Virginia, all of which and more is set forth in the letter I enclose from the dear old man. I don’t care much for the country,—the real article I mean,—with its dusty roads and horn bugs and worms and stupid people, aping last year’s fashions, but something draws me to Ridgefield, and mamma and I are going there to spend the summer and rest and get back some of the good looks I lost being so gay abroad and so seasick coming home. And you are to go with us. Mamma says so, and I am writing to tell you to meet us in Springfield, July —, in the afternoon. No dress needed. I shall not take much, and if there should be a quilting, or sewing society, or church social you’ll have that love of a gown I bought for you in Paris and which I shall bring.

“Only think, what a gorgeous time we’ll have, just ourselves. You and I, and not a man to bother. There may be a bartender or something, I presume there is, but he don’t count. Nobody to dress for, or pose for, or keep myself always with the same angelic expression. No need of the blue book. Guess I shall leave it at home unless you want to see the new names in it. One, a poor insipid lad, who asked me point-blank how much mamma was worth. I told him 500,000, meaning pennies, but he understood it dollars, and at once offered me his title in exchange. I laughed in his face and he looked astonished.”

Here Helen was interrupted by her maid bringing her a letter the postman had just left. It was from a girl friend living in Boston, who had returned from abroad in the same vessel. After the usual chitchat of girls who have seen the same places and know the same people, she wrote, “Boston is like a graveyard. Everybody out of town and some in the most unheard-of places. By the way, you don’t know the Masons, so their whereabouts has no interest for you. I can’t endure them, they are so stuck up and prim, but they are the Masons for all that, and their doings of importance. Well, they have gone to a little inland town,—Ridgefield is the name,—to spend the summer, and I dare say are very happy there, as no canaille can brush against them, and Mrs. Mason will not be shocked by what she calls second-class in young people who are just lively, and she will not be afraid some girl will look at Craig. Pity you never had a chance at him.”

Helen did not read any further for joy. She had so longed for a chance at Craig and now she was to have it. Her friend did not say that he was at the Prospect House, but unquestionably he was. At all events he was in the town, which was not like Saratoga, and her good resolutions melted like wax.

Resuming her letter to Alice, she wrote:

“I broke off abruptly to read a letter from Belle Sherman, who was with us in Europe and lives in Boston. And what do you think? Craig Mason is in Ridgefield, presumably at the Prospect House, and I—well, I am going on the war path just once more before I reform, as I intended to do. You remember I wrote you about him last summer when I was in Saratoga. He was the only young man of any account who did not pay me some attention. He ignored me, and, entre nous, I mean to pay him off for saying I was not his style. What is his style, I wonder? If I only knew I could soon adapt myself to it. You’ll have to find out and coach me. You have a way which makes people show themselves to you as they are, while with me there is always something held back, as if we were playing hide and seek. Entre nous again. I don’t know about Mr. Prescott. It seems as if fate were leading me to Ridgefield and Craig Mason. He is a most desirable parti, and mother would be in a state of beatitude to be allied with the Masons of Boston. Ah, well, nous verrons. How Frenchy I am. Bad French, Celine, my maid, would say, with admirable frankness.

“Now, remember, I rely on you to help me in every way with this Sphinx until I can say ‘Veni, Vidi, Vici.’ Latin, as well as French. I am rather learned after all. Write at once and say you will meet us in Springfield.

“Lovingly, but on mischief bent,

“Your cousin, Helen.”

“P. S. I shall take some of my best clothes, and you better put in your trunk a book or two of such literature and poetry as you think adapted to my capacity in case the Sphinx proves bookish like Mr. Prescott.

“Again adieu,

“Helen.”

CHAPTER VIII.
ALICE.

The hot sun of a July afternoon was pouring in at the west windows of a little red schoolhouse among the mountains between Springfield and Albany. It was the last day of the term and as was the custom in district schools in New England the Committee men had been in to see what progress the scholars had made and to pronounce upon it at the close of the exercises. It was examination day and looked forward to with as much interest and anxiety by the teacher and pupils as are the commencements in larger institutions. To the red schoolhouse among the mountains had come this afternoon the minister, the doctor, the lawyer with several other visitors, parents and relatives of the children who had acquitted themselves so creditably that only words of commendation were spoken by the lawyer and doctor and minister when each in turn made remarks.

Rocky Point was to be congratulated upon having secured the services of so competent a teacher as Miss Tracy had proved herself to be, the lawyer said, and the doctor and clergyman acquiesced in his opinion, while the visitors bowed their approbation. Then a prayer was said, “Shall We Meet Beyond the River?” was sung, and school was dismissed. There was a scramble for books and dinner pails and sunbonnets and caps, and the children hurried away, glad that vacation had come, with no more study for many long weeks. The minister and doctor and lawyer and visitors went next after a few complimentary words to the young teacher, and the natural question as to where she intended to pass the summer. She might go to Cooperstown to visit a friend, she said, but more likely she should remain at home and help her Aunt Mary, as usual.

“I saw among the arrivals from abroad the names of your aunt, Mrs. Freeman Tracy, and her daughter, and thought you might possibly visit them,” one of the ladies said.

Alice replied, “I have no expectation of visiting them, and I hardly think they will stay in New York all summer.”

The ladies bowed and went out, and Alice was alone, tired and hot, and so glad her first term of teaching was over and that she had given satisfaction. Better than all was the fact that she would in a few days have thirty-six dollars of her own. It was the first money she had ever earned, and it seemed like a fortune to her. Sitting down upon one of the hard benches by an open window she began to plan what she should do with it. Give part of it to Aunt Mary to get her a new dress, and with another part buy herself some boots and gloves. Her old ones were so shabby, and she was very fastidious with regard to her hands and feet, if she were only a little country girl, living among the mountains of western Massachusetts, where city fashions did not prevail to a great extent, except as some ambitious factory girl aped them so far as she could. Alice’s father, George Tracy, had been half-brother to Helen’s father, Freeman Tracy, who had inherited his large fortune from his mother. George, who was ten years older than his brother, was a languid, easy-going, handsome man, with no more talent or inclination for work than a child. Twice Freeman, who was very fond of him, had set him up in business, with the result each time of a complete failure.

“No use, Free. It isn’t in me to see to anything. Better give me a small allowance, if you want to do anything for such a shiftless good-for-nothing as I am, and let me shirk for myself,” George said to his brother, who took him at his word and gave him not a small, but a liberal allowance, which kept him quite at his ease.

It had been Freeman’s intention to make his will and leave George the income of a certain sum, but death came suddenly, before the will was made, and there was no provision for George. The whole of Freeman’s large fortune went to his widow and infant daughter a few months old. Between George and his sister-in-law there did not exist the most amicable relations. She looked upon him as a dreaming neer-do-weel, through whom her husband had lost a great deal of money. Of the yearly allowance she knew nothing, and as George was too proud to enlighten her he found himself at his brother’s death without money and with no means of support, unless he went to work,—a new state of things for him, as he had never in his life been really fatigued from any physical exercise. But the strain had come, and he met it by hiring as a clerk in a cotton mill in Rocky Point, where he married a beautiful young girl, who died when her baby was four weeks old. Her home had always been with her aunt and uncle, Ephraim and Mary Wood, plain, old-fashioned people, with hearts larger than their means, and hands ready to give help to all who needed it. They were very fond of their niece and very proud of her alliance with George Tracy, whom they looked upon as a prince in disguise. A poor one, it is true, but still a prince, and they gave him a home as soon as he was married, and when his young wife died and left a little girl, whom they called for its mother, they still kept him with them and never lost their high opinion of him as one whom it was an honor to have in their family. Of her father, Alice had some remembrance, as she was nearly five years old when he died suddenly, as his brother had done. Tall, well-dressed, with long, white hands, of which he took a great deal of care; always looking for a seat and always reading when he found one, was the picture she carried of him. Of her mother’s personality she knew nothing, except what she heard from others, and what she gathered from an old-time photograph of a young girl with a lovely face and large, beautiful blue eyes, with a laugh in them which the bungling photographer had not been able to spoil, as he had the pose of the head and hands.

When George died Mr. Wood felt it incumbent upon him to notify Mrs. Freeman Tracy, who was at Richfield Springs, having an ideal time, she told Mrs. Wood, rather complainingly, when she came to the funeral with her daughter Helen, who was nearly three years older than Alice. It was Helen’s first experience in a country farmhouse like the Woods, and some of her remarks on what she saw were not very complimentary. But Alice was too young to resent them, or understand. She admired her cousin greatly, especially her bronze boots, with their high, French heels.

“I wish I had some like ’em. Do they cost more than a dollar?” she said, with a rueful glance at her own coarser shoes.

“A dollar! I guess they do. Forty or fifty dollars at least!” Helen replied, at random, and without the slightest idea of the real cost of them or anything else.

Stooping down, she unbuttoned her boots in a trice, and, removing Alice’s shoes, put her own upon a pair of feet much too short for them, for Alice was small for her years and Helen was large.

“Why, they are too big. Your feet wobble awfully in them,” Helen said, “but I’ll tell you what to do. Put some cotton in ’em. Our maid Susan does, and mamma did once for me when my boots were too long. Find some, and I’ll show you.”

The cotton was found and the boots stuffed and pronounced a splendid fit, as Helen proceeded to button them. Suddenly it occurred to her that she had nothing to wear herself, as she couldn’t begin to get her foot into Alice’s shoe. With a jerk the boots came off, and, to Alice’s wondering looks, she said, “I must not give ’em to you, for I can’t go in my stocking feet to New York, but I’ll have mamma send you some, if you can’t buy ’em. You are real poor, ain’t you?”

Alice didn’t know whether she were poor or not. She only knew she wanted boots like these being taken from her feet and transferred to Helen’s, and two great tears rolled down her cheeks as she resumed her own despised shoes.

“Don’t cry,” Helen said, brusquely. “I’ll send you some boots and a lot of things.”

She kept her word, and from time to time boots and other articles of dress,—some new and some secondhand, but quite as good as new, when Mrs. Wood’s skillful fingers had made them over,—found their way to the farmhouse, and little Alice Tracy was for years the best-dressed child in Rocky Point. As the children grew older and saw each other on the very rare intervals when Mrs. Tracy stopped for a day at Rocky Point, they became very fond of each other, and Helen, who inherited her father’s generous nature, was often troubled because Alice was not wealthy like herself. All that she could make her mother do for her she did, and it was owing to her influence that when Alice was fifteen she was placed in a boarding school in Albany with her cousin, who did not care for books and who managed to elude her teachers and give more spreads and have more larks and still retain her good standing than any pupil in school. At the end of the year she left, a fully fledged young lady, “with more beaux on her string,” her companions said, than they all had together.

Alice stayed two years longer, and, at eighteen, went back to Rocky Point, with somewhat different views of the world from what she had when she left it. In one point, however, she was unchanged, and that was her love for the old couple, Uncle Ephraim and Aunt Mary, who had been so kind to her. If the homely ways and duties of the farm grated upon her she kept it to herself, and was the same sweet, lovable, sunny-tempered girl she had always been, putting her young strength to the wheel when the strain of work was hardest, and making the labor easier by half by the way with which she planned and executed it.

“Where does that girl get her vim and go ahead?” the neighbors used to say, remembering her mother’s frail constitution and her indolent and easy-going father.

Alice knew all about him. She had overheard a farmhand telling another of his laziness, his selfishness and love of ease and pride, which sometimes rebelled against his plain surroundings and the people of the town, the mill-hands, the shoemakers and machinists who constituted a large proportion of the inhabitants of Rocky Point.

“I know now where I got that little mean thread in my nature. I am naturally lazy, and selfish, and proud, and sometimes grind my teeth hard at what seems common and vulgar. But I’ll kill it dead,” she said, with a stamp of her foot. “I’ll do what my hands find to do without shrinking, and not mind the rough men whom Uncle Ephraim has on his farm.”

On two or three occasions she had spent a month in New York in Mrs. Tracy’s elegant house, and although she did not go a great deal into society, she went enough to get a taste for something different from her life at home. But she resolutely set her face against any repinings which might show on the surface, and was as bright and cheerful and sunny as if the rambling old farmhouse, with its low ceilings, its square beams in the corners of the rooms, and its iron door latches were a palatial residence and she the queen; and, in a way, she was queen of the place, for the old couple loved her as if she had been their own child. Nothing was too good for her, and no sacrifice they could make too great if it made her happier. In return for this she lavished upon them all the love of her ardent nature, and gave to them a helpfulness and thoughtfulness beyond her years.

Just before going to Europe Helen spent a week at the farmhouse, declaring herself ennuied to death with the dulness.

“I like being with you, of course,” she said to Alice. “You rest me and bring out the best there is in me, and when I see you washing those dreadful dinner dishes and skimming the milk and pouring tea and coffee for those sweaty men who come to the table in their shirt sleeves, I hate myself for the useless piece of pottery I am, and feel tempted to try the dairy maid business like you. If I had a little chalet and a petit Trianon like Marie Antoinette I’d do it. Truly, Alice, I don’t see how you endure it as you do, with nothing livelier to go to than a church social, where they play kissing games, but won’t let you dance, because it is wicked, and not a single man to flirt with. I am positively getting rusty for some male to wink at!”

Alice laughed and replied, “I believe you’d flirt with the undertaker if you could get your eyes on him. Why, you have winked at every sweaty man on the farm, and there isn’t one of them who doesn’t brighten up the minute you appear in your stunning gowns, with your cheery good morning. There are men enough to flirt with, but not exactly your kind.”

“Nor yours, either,” Helen rejoined. “Honestly, how are you ever to be married, unless I send you some of my cast-offs?”

“Which one?” Alice asked, and Helen replied, “I really don’t know, there’s ——,” so and so, repeating their names; “but, I dare say, whichever one I made over to you I should want back again. I wrote you from Saratoga about Craig Mason, who didn’t care to call upon me. Do you know, I’m dying to see him. Something tells me you would suit him to a dot, but it can’t be till I’ve met him in fair conflict and been defeated.”

This conversation took place the day before Helen left Rocky Point, and a week later she sailed for Europe, leaving Alice very lonely with the ocean between her and the cousin to whom she was greatly attached. The next April she was offered the spring term in the district school at three dollars a week and board herself. It was something to do,—something to earn,—and she took the school, and made believe she liked it, although Helen herself could scarcely have rebelled more against it than she did, mentally, or have been more relieved than she was when the last day came and she was released from the daily routine which had been so irksome to her. She was to take it up again in the autumn, it was true, but for ten weeks she was free to do what she liked. Skimming the milk and washing the dreadful dinner dishes and pouring coffee for sweaty men she preferred to school teaching, if it were not that the latter brought her money of her own. “Thirty-six dollars,” she repeated, as she fanned herself with the cover of a spelling book. “What shall I do with it all? Ten shall go to Aunt Mary; five to Uncle Ephraim, and I really think I need ten more for gloves and boots and things. Twenty-five dollars in all—oh my!” and she stopped, appalled at the thought that there were only eleven dollars left for the trip to Cooperstown, she was so anxious to take. It couldn’t be done. She must stay at home, as she had the previous summer, and she wanted so much to get in touch with the world as she had known it in Albany, and the glimpses she had had of it in New York, if it were only for a week. It seemed hard, and for a moment her bright spirits were clouded, and there were tears in her eyes, which she wiped away quickly as she heard a step and a whistle by the door. It was a young lad, one of her scholars, who came in without at first seeing her. Then, with a start, he said, “Oh, Miss Tracy, you here? I left my jography and come in to get it. I was goin’ out to your house. I’ve been to the office and they gin me a letter for you, ’cause it says on it ‘In Haste.’ Here ’tis.”

Alice knew before she took the letter that it must be from Helen, who was very apt to put “In Haste,” or, “Please forward,” on her letters, with a belief that it expedited their delivery, as it had in this instance. The boy found his geography and departed, leaving Alice again alone. Tearing open the letter she read it rapidly, and felt that the aspect of everything had changed. Even the weather was not so oppressive as it had been. She was going somewhere. It was the country, to be sure, but she liked the country and Ridgefield was different from Rocky Point. Then she would be with Helen, of whom she was very fond. She understood her, and knew all about her flirtations and the blue book, and what names were in it. She had written some of them herself at Helen’s request, because her handwriting was better than her cousin’s. She had heard of Craig Mason, and the fact that he did not care for her cousin’s acquaintance had awakened her own interest in him and she was nearly as pleased as Helen herself for a chance to meet him. That she could be preferred to Helen never entered her mind. She was simply glad to be with her and ready to do her any service in her power.

When Mr. and Mrs. Wood heard of Helen’s wish for Alice to accompany her to Ridgefield they at once urged her going, and refused to take the money offered them by the generous girl.

“Keep it for yourself,” Mrs. Wood said. “Ridgefield may not be a fashionable place, but you will see new people and want new things.”

“No one will know what I wear when Helen is with me,” Alice said, but she bought herself one or two inexpensive dresses, freshened up others with ribbons and ruches, retrimmed her hat, paid five dollars for a pair of boots, and two for a pair of gloves,—the greatest extravagance she had ever committed, and one which kept her awake for hours as she reflected that cheaper ones would have answered every purpose and left something for Aunt Mary.

The good woman, however, insisted that she did not need it, and, unknown to Alice, slipped a dollar of her egg money into the young girl’s purse on the morning when she started for Springfield where she was to meet her aunt and cousin. The New York train was late and when it came in Helen was on the platform motioning frantically to Alice to hurry and come on board.

“Mamma is in the parlor car. We were both there, but as there is no vacant chair, I’m coming with you where we can sit together and talk. I’ve so much to tell you,” she said, as she followed Alice into the common car, and as soon as the train started she was under full headway, telling where she had been, what and whom she had seen, and what she proposed to do and expected Alice to do. “You are looking lovely in that grey gown which I know is made over, but is quite up to date, and I would not be surprised if you eclipsed me,” she said; “but if Craig Mason is there, hands off till I have had my try with his royal highness. Oh, mercy!” and she gave a cry of alarm as a flash of sharp lightning lit up the darkening sky, followed by a terrific peal of thunder.

The storm had burst upon them in its fury, and between the roar of the thunder and the dashing of the rain against the windows, Alice could hear but little more that Helen said. She caught Craig Mason’s name two or three times and knew he was the theme of conversation as the train sped on, and finally drew up at Ridgefield station, where it only stopped when it had New York passengers.

“Oh, what shall we do?” Helen cried, drawing back in dismay from the rain which came driving in at the door.

“Open your umbrella and go on,” Alice said.

Helen obeyed, but her flimsy parasol was turned inside out as she sprang from the car, not to the ground, but into somebody’s arms, she did not know whose. They were very strong and held her fast while they held her, which was only an instant, for there was her mother uttering cries of dismay at the wetting she was getting. Dropping Helen, Mark took her mother and set her down upon the platform, while Alice helped herself. Her alpaca umbrella did not turn inside out, but protected her and her cousin, while Mark held another over her aunt as they ran to the carriage, into which Mrs. Tracy sank exhausted, blaming somebody, she did not know whom, for the storm and her discomfort generally.

“You are not going to leave us? The horses might start,” she cried as she saw Mark turn again toward the station.

“The horses are safe, madam, and there is still another of your party. Had you forgotten her?” he said, as he went after Celine, the maid, who was drenched to the skin and struggling with two or three satchels and wraps.

“Oh, must she come in here? Is there no other carriage?” Mrs. Tracy said, as Mark put the half-drowned girl in beside her and shut the door, saying, “There is no conveyance but this, except the van for the baggage. She surely cannot go in there.”

“I feel as if I were taking a bath,” the unhappy lady moaned, as they started up the hill, while Helen, true to her nature, said, “That man speaks like a gentleman. I wonder who he is.”

CHAPTER IX.
WAITING FOR T’OTHER ONE.

The morning following the arrival of the Tracys was bright and beautiful as summer mornings are apt to be after a heavy rain. There was no sign of the storm which had swept so fiercely over the hills the previous night except in the delicious coolness of the air, the muddy street and the few pools of water still standing upon the walk. Craig, who was never a very good sleeper, had heard every sound in the usually quiet house. It had been nine o’clock before the Tracys had divested themselves of their wet garments and were ready for their supper, which, in spite of Mrs. Taylor’s protestations that every thing was spoiled, they enjoyed immensely.

Helen was in high spirits and knew she was going to enjoy herself, everything was so funny and clean. She had made friends with Mrs. Taylor by praising her supper, and won Uncle Zacheus’ heart by looking into his face with her beautiful eyes as she squeezed his hand and said, “My dear good man, you don’t know how glad I am to be here.”

“He don’t know whether he’s on foot or on horseback, that girl has so upset him,” Mrs. Taylor said, as she hurried from the salon to the kitchen, and the kitchen to the salon, occasionally administering a sharp reproof to Jeff, who was dodging round corners, and again whispering to Sarah, the waitress, to keep her wits about her and be sure and pass things to the left instead of the right.

Craig’s room was in the north hall, which communicated with the west at right angles, but he could hear the clatter of feet on the stairs, the sound of talking and laughter in the hall, the running of water in the bathroom, until he began to wonder if they would empty the reservoir and leave nothing for his morning bath. There were calls for Celine to open a trunk, or bring a bag, or a wrap left below, and then at last the final good-nights were said, the doors shut and quiet reigned in the house.

“I can’t imagine why I am so restless when I have been in so many noisy hotels and never minded them,” Craig thought as he stepped out of bed to see what time it was.

“Only eleven, I thought it must be midnight,” he said, going to the window and looking out into the night.

The rain was over, the stars were coming out, and the moon was scudding between the few misty clouds still hovering in the sky. From below he caught the odor of a cigar and heard a man’s tread on the piazza. It was Mark walking up and down as if he, too, were restless and could not sleep. The sight of him brought back the story heard from Uncle Zacheus that morning, and while recalling its details Craig, who had gone back to bed, fell asleep and dreamed that ’Tina came to him in her white dress and blue ribbons, with the gold beads around her neck, which Mr. Taylor had said she wore on the morning when she left home for the prison. She had a sweet, innocent face for which many a man would peril his life, Craig thought, as he awoke with a start to hear a robin singing outside his window and to see a sunbeam on the wall above his head. It was nearly six o’clock,—later than he usually slept,—for he was an early riser. Dressing himself, he went to the dining-room and breakfasted alone. Everything was quiet in the west wing and he saw no signs of the Tracys, except a big Saratoga trunk in the hall waiting to be taken upstairs, and a smart-looking maid, in white cap and apron, carrying a tray from the kitchen with dishes upon it. “One of the ladies breakfasts in her room,—Mrs. Tracy, probably,” he thought, as he sauntered into the office and turned the leaves of the register, finding the names: “Mrs. Freeman A. Tracy, New York city; Miss Helen A. Tracy, New York city; Miss Alice Tracy, Rocky Point, Mass.”

The handwriting was very plain and Craig studied it for a moment, while Uncle Zacheus, who was present and still under the spell of Helen’s eyes and smiles, said to him, “Writes a good fist; plain as copper-plate, and she’s a daisy, too, but not up to t’other one. Wait till you see her.”

“What do you mean?” Craig asked. “Which is ‘t’other one,’ and which is the daisy?”

“Why, t’other one is—t’other one, and the daisy’s gone down to the river with Jeff after pond lilies,” Uncle Zach replied.

“Gone to the river with Jeff?” Craig repeated, and Uncle Zach answered, “Yes, sir. She was up with the sun. Wrote the names; hers is the last one; and then went off with Jeff, holdin’ up her white skirts and showin’ her trim boots and ankles just like what Dot’s was once when she was slimmer.”

Craig did not ask any more about the daisy. He felt sure it was Alice, the cousin, from Rocky Point, of which place he had never heard. He was not as much interested in her as he was in the ‘t’other one,’ who occupied more of his thoughts than he would like to confess. He remembered his prejudice against her as a heartless coquette, and his declining to call upon her when asked to do so in Saratoga. But she was here in the same house with him and it was incumbent upon him as a gentleman to treat her with some attention. She might not be as bad as she was painted; at all events, he would like to see her, and he had found himself taking more pains than usual with his toilet. He was always faultlessly neat in his person and attire, especially in the matter of collars and cuffs, and this morning he had tried and discarded two or three pairs, and as many neckties, before he was satisfied that his tout-ensemble was all that could be expected in a country tavern. He had looked for Jeff to give an extra polish to his shoes, but not finding him, had put on a pair of tans, and felt himself quite au fait and ready to cope with the young lady who, rumor said, had lured so many men to her feet only to be refused. He had no intention of following their example. He expected to amuse himself and be relieved from the ennui which was beginning to affect him in the quiet place.

As he was leaving the office the maid came in to drop a postal in the box. She was a trim little black-eyed French girl, who, in her bright plaid dress, high-heeled slippers and red stockings, looked very pretty and picturesque.

“Good mornin’, Miss—er—What is your name,” was Uncle Zacheus’ salutation.

“Celine, monsieur,” was the girl’s reply.