The Storm Centre: A Novel, Page 3

  CHAPTER III

  Captain Baynell himself, throughout his illness, saw naught of thefeminine inmates of the house, but the first day of convalescence thathe was able to be out of his room and to descend the stairs, unsteadilyenough and holding to the balustrade all the way, he was very civillygreeted by Mrs. Gwynn when he suddenly appeared at the library door.

  She glanced up with obvious surprise, then advanced with the light, airyelegance that was naturally appurtenant to her slight figure, and seemedno more a conscious pose or gait than the buoyancy of a bird or abutterfly. She shook hands with him, hoped he was better, congratulatedhim on the happy termination of so serious an illness, cautioned himagainst exposure to the chilly uncertain weather, drew a great arm-chairnearer to the fire, and as he seated himself she piled up some oldnumbers of _Blackwood's Magazine_ and the _Edinburgh Review_ on a littletable close to his elbow.

  Her regard for his comfort--casual, even official, so to speak, thoughit was, the attentive, considerate expression of her beautiful eyes,the kindly tones of her dulcet, drawling voice--affected him like abenediction. He was still feeble, tremulous, and his heart throbbed withsudden surges of emotion. He was grateful, recognizant, flattered,although the provision for his mental entertainment bore also theinterpretation that he need not trouble himself to talk.

  Therefore he affected to read, and she sat apparently oblivious of hispresence, crocheting a fichu-like garment, called a "sontag" in thosedays, destined for a friend, evidently, not for her own sombre wear. Thematerial was of an ultramarine blue zephyr, with a border of fleckedblack and white. She was making no great speed, for often the long,white bone needle fell from her listless grasp, and with her beautifuleyes on the fire, her face no longer a cold, impassive mask, but allunconscious, soft, wistful, sweet, showing her real identity, she wouldlose herself in revery till some interruption--Judge Roscoe's entrance,the "ladies" and their demands, old Ephraim seeking orders--would rouseher with a start as from a veritable dream.

  As the days went thus slowly by it soon came to pass that Baynell couldnot be silent. Her presence here flattered him, but he did not reflectthat the library was the gathering-place of all the family; it held,too, the only fire, except his own, in the house, a fact which he,forgetful of the scarcity of fuel which the army had occasioned, did notappreciate. She could hardly withdraw, and, with her work in her hand,she could not ignore her uncle's guest.

  Sometimes he caught himself covertly studying her expression, marvellingat its complete absorption;--at the strange fact that so slight a tokenof such deep introspection showed on the surface. It was like someexpanse of still, clear waters--one can only know that here areunmeasured fathoms, abysses of unexplored depths. Her meditation, herobvious brooding thought, seemed significant; yet sometimes he was proneto deem this merely the cast of her noble, reflective features, herexpansive brow, the comprehensive intelligence of her limpid eyes,--allso beautiful, yet endowed with something far beyond mere beauty. Now andagain he read aloud a passage which specially struck his attention, andoccasionally her comments jarred on his preconceived opinion of her, or,rather, of what a woman so young, so favored, so graciously endowed,ought to feel and think. One day, particularly, he was much impressed bythis. Some benignant philosopher, reaching out both hands to the happytime of the millennium, had given voice to the theory that man'sinhumanity to man, particularly in the more cultured circles, was theresult of scant mutual knowledge--if we but knew the sorrows of others,how hate would be metamorphosed to pity, the bruised reed unbroken! Thissentiment mightily pleased Captain Baynell, and he read it aloud.

  It seemed potently to arrest her attention. She laid her work down onher knee and gazed steadily at him.

  "If we could know the secret heartache--the blighted aspiration--thedenied longing--the bruised pride of others?"

  As he signified assent, she gazed steadily at him for a moment longer insilence. Then--

  "If we only knew!" she cried,--"Christian brethren,--what a laughing,jeering, gibing world we should be!"

  Once more she took her work in her hands, once more exclaimed, "If weonly knew!" and paused to laugh aloud with a low icy tone. Then sheinserted the dexterous needle into the fashioning of the "shell" andbent her reflective, smiling face over the swift serpentines of the"zephyr."

  Captain Baynell was shocked in some sort. This frank unconsciouscynicism was out of keeping with so much grace and charm. He was hardlyready to argue the question. He was dismayed by a sense of futility. Ifshe had thought this, it was enough to show her inmost nature. Asubstituted, cultivated conviction does not uproot the spontaneousproductions of the mind. It is only foisted in their midst. He wassilent in his turn, and presently fell to fluttering the leaves of hisbook and reading with slight interest and only a superficial appearanceof absorption.

  If we only knew the sorrows of others! Mrs. Gwynn's satiric eyes glowedwith the uncomfortable thought that hers at all events had been publicenough. If openness be a claim for sympathy, she might well be entitledto receive balm of all her world. It seared every sensitive fibre withinher to realize how much of her intimate inner life they all knew,--herfriends, who masked this knowledge with a casual face, but talked overher foolish miseries among themselves with the mingled gusto of gossip,the superiority of contemptuous commiseration, and a rabid zest ofspeculation concerning such poor reserves as she had been able tomaintain. Much of this drifted back to her knowledge through her oldcolored nurse, who since her childhood had remained her specialattendant, though now officiating as cook to the Roscoe household, andby all respectfully called "Aunt Chaney." Her association with othercooks and ladies' maids enabled her to become well informed as to whatwas said and known in other households of these affairs. As Aunt Chaneydetailed the gossip, she herself would burst into painful tears at thehumiliating disclosures, exclaiming ever and anon, "Oh, de debbil wasbusy, shorely, de day dee married dat man!"

  But despite her burden of sympathetic woe, she would gather her powersto compass a debonair assurance toward observant outsiders andoptimistically toss her head. "De man was good-looking to_de_straction," she would loftily asseverate, in defence of thesituation, "and he didn't live long, nohow."

  Continuing, she would remind her hearers that she had been opposed toher young mistress's marriage, "But shucks! de pore chile saw how theother gals wuz runnin' arter Rufus Allerton Gwynn,--dat Fisher gal triedhard fur true, an' not married yit,--an' dat made Leonora Gwynn--LeonoraRoscoe dat wuz--think mo' of his bein' so taken up with her! Dehansomes' man in de whole country! He didn't live long!"

  This gallant outward show did not prevent the iron from entering the oldnurse's soul especially as she detailed the gossip of Miss Fisher'smaid, Leanna, who overheard the conversation of her mistress with twoparticular girl-cronies beside the midnight fire, pending the duty ofbrushing the long hair of the Fisher enchantress, which, being of athrice-gilded red tint, required much care and gave her much trouble. Itgave trouble elsewhere. Its flaring glories kept others awake besidespoor Leanna, plying the brush nightly one "solid hour by the clock." Forthe fair Miss Mildred Fisher was a famous belle, and many hearts hadbeen entangled in those glittering meshes.

  This trio had been Leonora Gwynn's intimate coterie, and she knew justhow they looked as they sat half undressed in the chilly midnight beforethe dying fire in a great bedroom, in the home of one of the three,their tresses--Maude Eldon's dark, and Margaret Duncan's brown, andMildred Fisher's red-gold, with Leanna's interested face leaning abovetheir gilded shimmer--hanging down over dressing-sacques or nightgowns,while they actively gesticulated at each other with handglass or brush,and with spirit disputed whether it was a chair which Rufus Gwynn hadbroken over Leonora's head, or did he merely drag her around by thehair--"Think of that, my dear,--by her hair!"

  It was a poor consolation, but this neither they, nor any other, wouldever know. With the reflection Leonora set her even little teethtogether as she still dreamily gazed into the fire.

  Oth
er more obvious facts she could not conceal. Her stringent, hopelesspoverty would bring a piteous expression to Judge Roscoe's face asoccasion required him to seek to gather together some humble remnants ofthe estate her husband had recklessly flung away, for he had dissipatedher fortune as well as desolated her heart. She needed no reminder, andindeed no word passed Judge Roscoe's lips of the settlements that he haddrawn when he discovered that, despite all remonstrances, his orphanedniece was bent upon this marriage. Though Rufus Gwynn protested that hewould sign them, she had tossed them into the fire like a heroine ofromance, grandiloquently declaring that she would not trust herself to aman to whom she could not trust her fortune.

  How pleased her lover had been! How gay, gallant, triumphant! Later hefound his account in her folly and a more substantial value thanflattered pride, for by reason of her marriage the financial control ofher guardian was abrogated, and her thousands slipped through herhusband's fingers like sand at the gaming-table, the wine-rooms, therace-track, as with his wild, riotous companions he went his swift wayto destruction and death. And even this did not alienate her, for herearly admiration and foolish adoration had a continuance that a devotionfor a worthier object rarely attains, and she loved him long, despitefinancial reverses and wicked waste and cruelty and neglect. She couldhave forgiven him aught, all, but his own unworthiness. Who can gaugethe sophistries, the extenuations, the hopes, that delude a woman whoclings to an ideal of her own tender fashioning, the dream of a fondheart, and the sacrifice of a loving young life. He left her not onevain imagining that she might still hold dear amidst the wreck of herexistence.

  The crisis came at the end of a quarrel,--one of his own making,--aquarrel about a horse that he wished to sell;--oh, the trifle--thetrifle that had wrought such woe!

  As she thought of it anew, sitting before the fire, she laid the workupon her knee and unconsciously wrung her hands. The next moment shefelt the eyes of the officer lifted toward her in a cursory glance. Sheaffected to shift the rings on her fingers, then took up thecrochet-needle and bent her head to the deft fashioning of shells.

  Now she could think unmolested, think of what she could never forget!Yet why should she canvass the details again and again, save that shemust. The event marked an epoch of final significance in her life,--themoment that her dream fled and she awakened to the stern fact that shehad ceased to love. And at first it was a trifle, a mere trifle, thathad inaugurated this amazing change. Her husband wished to sell thehorse, her horse, that Judge Roscoe had given her a week before. Thegift had come, she knew, as an overture of reconciliation, as there hadbeen much hard feeling between Judge Roscoe and his niece. For after herelopement and marriage he promptly applied to the chancery court seekingto protect her future by securing the settlement on her of certain fundsof her estate, urging the fact of her minority and the spendthriftcharacter of her husband. Leonora vehemently opposed the petition, andowing to the efforts of her counsel to gain time and the law's delays,she came of age before any decree could be granted, and then defeatedthe measure by making a full legal waiver of her rights in favor of herhusband. But, at length, when pity overmastered Judge Roscoe's justanger, she welcomed a token of his renewed cordiality. She did not feelat liberty to sell the gift, she had remonstrated. It was not bestowedas a resource--to sell. She feared to wound her kinsman. What was thepressing necessity for money? Why not manage as if the horse had notbeen given her?

  The contention waxed high as she stood in habit and hat just in thevestibule with the horse outside hitched to the block, for Judge Roscoewas coming to ride with her. She held fast, for a wonder; she seldomcould resist; but the horse was not theirs _to sell_. Rufus Gwynnsuddenly turned at last, sprang up the stairs, three steps at a time,and as he came bounding down again she saw the glint of steel in hishand.

  Even now she shuddered.

  "It is growing colder," Captain Baynell said. (How observant that manseemed to be!) "Allow me to mend the fire."

  He stirred the hickory logs, and as the yellow flames shot up thechimney he sank back into his great chair, and she took up the thread ofher work and her reminiscences together.

  She honestly thought her husband had intended to kill her. Somehow theveil dropped from her eyes, and she knew him for the fiend he was evenbefore the dastardly act that revealed him unqualified.

  But it was not she on whom his spite was to fall. Such deeds bringretribution. Only the horse--the glossy, graceful, spirited animal,turning his lustrous confiding eyes toward the house as the dooropened, whinnying a low joyous welcome, anticipative of the breezygallop--received the bullet just below the ear.

  It was then and afterward like the distraught agony of a confused dream.She heard her own screams as if they had been uttered by another; shesaw the great bulk of the horse lying in the road, strugglingfrightfully, futilely, whether with conscious pain or merely the lastreserves of muscular energy she did not know; she noted the gatheringcrowd, dismayed, bewildered, angry; she knew that her husband hadhastily galloped off, a trifle out of countenance because of certainthreats of some brawny Irish railroad hands going home with theirdinner-pails who had seen the whole occurrence. Then Judge Roscoe hadridden up at last to accompany her as of old, thinking how pretty andpleased she would be on the new horse,--for equestrianism was the vauntof the girls of that day and she had been a famous horsewoman,--andfeeling a great pity because of her privations, and her cruel folly, andher unworthy husband. When he saw what had just occurred, he saidinstantly, "You must come home with me, Leonora; you are not safe." Andshe had answered, "Take me with you--quick--quick! So that I may neversee that coward again." Thus she had left her husband forever.

  "Shall I draw up the blind?" asked Captain Baynell, seeing her fumblefor her zephyr.

  "No, thank you; there is still light sufficient, I think. The days aregrowing longer."

  Again, in the silence of the quiet room, the spell of her reminiscencesresumed its sway. She recalled the promises that had not sufficed; noexplanations extenuated the facts; no lures could avail; her resolutionwas taken and held firm. She laughed when, with full confidence in herunshaken love for him, her husband appealed to her by their mutualdevotion. She was simply enlightened. But she resented the satisfactionthat Judge Roscoe and his wife obviously felt in the separation, and theknowledge of the secret triumph of all her friends who had opposed thematch. She was embittered, humiliated, broken-spirited, yet shemaintained throughout a mask of placidity to the world, inquisitive,pitying, ridiculing, as she knew it to be. The separation passed astemporary. She was making a visit to her former home. This feint had themore countenance when a sudden need for her presence arose. Her auntfell ill and died, and soon there came tidings of the death of ClarenceRoscoe's wife while he was far away in the Confederate army. The threelittle girls were all alone.

  "Bring them here, Uncle Gerald. I will take charge of them," Leonora hadsaid. "Perhaps I can feel less dependent then."

  And Judge Roscoe, who had borne his own losses like a philosopher, hadtears in his eyes for her losses. "Oh, poor Leonora!" he had exclaimed."Your very presence is a boon, my dear. But for _you_ to be so strickenand desolate and--"

  He was about to say "robbed," but the facts forbade him; for Gwynn'slegal rights rendered her position as difficult as unenviable. In herown house she had contrived to hold her belongings together. Now, day byday, came tidings of the sale of her special personal effects--hercarriage, her domestic animals, her furniture, the very pictures on thewalls; then had followed a letter from her husband, regretting all hismisdeeds and promising infinite rehabilitation if she would but forgivehim. Naught could provoke a remonstrance, could stimulate Leonora toaction, could induce a return.

  Judge Roscoe had said but little. He had the deep-seated juridicalrespect for the relation of man and wife as a creation of law, as wellas an institution of God. When he was appealed to, he felt it his dutyto place impartially before her the husband's arguments, and promises,and protestations, but he experienced intense
relief when she terselydismissed Rufus Gwynn's plea for a reconciliation. "I know him now," shereplied.

  "An' 'fore de Lawd, _I_ knows him too!" her old nurse declared; "I jes'uped an' I sez, 'Marse Rufe, ye hev' got sech a notion o' sellin' out,ye mought sell old Chaney--ef ennybody would buy sech a contraption indese days! So I'm goin' over to my old home at Judge Roscoe's place, towait on Miss Leonora. I knows she needs me, an' I 'spect she's watchin'fur me now.' An' Marse Rufe, he says, 'Aunt Chaney, I don't know _what_you are talking about! Go over there, an' welcome! An' try to get mywife to see I was just overtaken in my temper and desperate; _you_persuade her to come back, Aunt Chaney.' Dat's what de debbil said terme. I always heard dat de debbil had a club foot. But, mon, he ain't.Two long, slim, handsome feet, an' his boots, sah, made in New Orleens!"

  The end had come characteristically at last! A horse, furiously ridden,brutally beaten, reared suddenly, lost his balance, fell backward,crushing the rider and breaking his neck. And so Rufus Gwynn reached hisgoal, and his wife was free at last.

  Free as some defenceless, hunted, tremulous animal, miraculouslyescaping fierce fangs, and a furious rush of a murderous pursuit;forever dominated by the sense of disaster, and despair, and flight;forever looking backward, forever hearkening to the echoes of thetroublous past--exhausted, listless, hopeless, every impulse of volitionstunned.

  It was well for her, doubtless, that the insistent duties of the care ofher uncle's household had grown difficult in the changed conditionsinduced by the war; that the education, the training, the well-being, ofthe motherless little "ladies"--all restricted by the ever narrowingopportunity of the beleaguered town, and overshadowed by the impendingclouds of disaster--appealed to her womanly heart and her maternalinstincts. Their needs had roused her interest, stimulated herinvention, elicited her self-control, that she might more definitelycontrol them.

  In the days of Captain Baynell's convalescence he had uniqueopportunities for observing the methods that had prevailed under hermanagement, for all the life of the house revolved about the one bigfire in the library. Sometimes, as he and Judge Roscoe sat there withpapers and books and cigars, presumably oblivious of the minutiae of thehousehold matters, while the fire flared and the tobacco smoke hung inblue wreaths about the stuccoed ceiling and the carved ornaments of thetall book-cases, he fancied that it was the characteristic interest intrifles animating an invalid which caused him to smilingly watch thescholastic struggles of the "ladies,"--their turmoils with "jogaphy,"for it was decreed that they should learn somewhat of the earth on whichthey lived; the anguish inflicted by that potent instrument of torture,the Blue Speller; the bowed head of juvenile despair on the wooden rimof the slate, over the mysteries of "subscraction," as the "lady" sobbedsoftly, under her breath, for loud weepings were interdicted, howeverpoignant the woe might be. Mrs. Gwynn was indeed unfeeling in thesecrises and often sarcastic. "You might use your sponge to wipe awayyour tears, Geraldine," she would say, with that curt icy inflection ofher soft voice. "I notice it is too dry for use on your slate."

  Each slate had a string to which was attached a small sponge and a shortslate-pencil, capable of an excruciating creak, which often set thejudge's teeth on edge; as he would wince from the sound, Mrs. Gwynnwould comment in this wise, "I have often heard that learned ladies donot contribute to household comfort,--so your Honor must suffer for theerudition that we have here."

  And the activities of "subscraction" were never abated.

  Baynell had at first a certain shrinking to witness the lessons of thedeaf-mute, pitying the poor deprived child, so young, so tender, sopretty, so plaintive in her infirmity, shut out from all the usualavenues of knowledge. He would take up his book and withdraw hisattention. But after a time there was suddenly forced upon hisobservation the superior judgment and acumen and careful altruisticthought exerted in these small matters by Mrs. Gwynn. Inexpert in themanual alphabet, she wasted no time nor labor on its acquisition forherself; but, notwithstanding this, "subscraction" had no terrors forLucille. So practised was she in the domain of demonstration that herslate was swiftly covered with figures, and her sponge had no necessityto be diverted to the incongruous function of wiping her bright eyes.All the questions were put in writing and answered by the littledeaf-mute with correct spelling and a most legible and creditablechirography, over which Captain Baynell found himself exclaiming withdelighted surprise, while the cheeks both of the scholar and teacherflushed with pride and gratification, as they exchanged congratulatorysmiles. So far from being the sport of her limitations and humiliated bythem, Lucille was pressed forward to excel, and the twins gazed upon heras a miracle of learning, and often craved the privilege of scanning herslate, and imitating the childish flourishes of her capital letters. Innaught was she permitted to feel her deficiencies--so craftily tenderwas her preceptress. The hour which the twins devoted to playing scaleson the grand piano--being snugly buttoned up in sacques to protect themfrom the chill of the great parlors, and often called across the hall towarm their fingers at the library fire--Lucille sat at herdrawing-board, and although she had only an ordinary degree of talent,she acquired a deftness and a proficiency that made the resultremarkable for a child of her age; her leisure was encouraged to expressitself in sketching from nature, and she went about much of the timepleasantly engrossed, holding up a pencil at a stiff angle and atarm's-length to take accurate measurement of relative distances anddetails of perspective.

  Baynell was a man who could be allured by a pretty face, but he couldnever have fallen in love with a woman merely for her beauty. He waspossessed of insistent ideals, and now and then these were shattered byan evidence of Mrs. Gwynn's incongruously bitter cynicism, or a touch ofrepellent hardness and an icy coldness unpleasing in one so young, andall his preconceived prejudices were to adjust anew. He was beginning atlast to feel that he must seek to realize her nature, rather than to fither into the niche awaiting the conventional goddess of his fancy. Shehad other traits as inconsistent with her youth, her grace, her beauty,her lissome gait, her delicate hand; and these were homespun virtues, soplain, so good, so useful, so aggressive--such as one may fancy aredesigned to compensate the possessor for limitations in a more gracefulsort,--according with an angular frame, a near-sighted vision, a raspingvoice. There was scant need to look so beautiful, so daintilyspeculative, as she sat and cast up the judge's household accounts in abig red book that seemed full of cobweb perplexities and strenuouscalculations to make both ends meet. Sometimes she brought it over toher uncle and, placing it before his reluctant gaze, pointed out someitem of his own extravagance with a dignity of rebuke and a look ofsuperior wisdom that might have realized to the imagination Minervaherself. Such a wealth of good house-keeping lore, so accuratelyapplied, might have justified any amount of feminine ugliness.

  Her tender, far-sighted, commiserative appreciation of the deaf-mute'slimitations, and the simple measures that had so far nullified them andutilized all the child's capacity, were incongruous with the iron ruleunder which the three were held.

  "I am afraid the ladies are giving you a great deal of trouble,Leonora," her uncle said one day, apologetically, when absolute mutinyseemed abroad amongst them.

  "Not half so much trouble as I intend to give them," Mrs. Gwynn repliedresolutely.

  Their meek, mild, readjusted little faces after the scholastic hourswere over were enough to move a heart of stone, and now and again JudgeRoscoe glanced uneasily at them, and at last said inappropriatelyenough:--

  "I am afraid you have not had a happy morning, ladies."

  "They have been brought to hear reason," Mrs. Gwynn observed dryly. "AndI have heard reason, too,--the Fourth Line of the Multiplication Tablerecited backward four times, standing facing the wall. It is an exercisethat tends to subdue the angry passions. Allow me to commend it forgeneral experiment."

  Baynell sought to laugh the episode off genially with the "ladies," butthe three little faces looked for permission to ridicule this direexperience, and as
Mrs. Gwynn's countenance maintained a blankinscrutability, they did not venture to make merry over their miseriesof the "Four Line," now happily overpast.

  The scholastic duties were well over by noon, except perhaps for thescale-playing on the grand piano, and the "ladies" roamed at will aboutthe house, or in the parterre if the weather were dry, or played atbattledore and shuttlecock or graces in the long gallery enclosed withVenetian blinds. If it rained they were permitted to repair to thekitchen, where Aunt Chaney, a very tall, portly woman, with a statelygruffness, obviously spurious, accommodated them with bits of dough, tobe moulded into ducks and pigs, and assigned them a small section of thestove whereon to bake these triumphs of the plastic art. Doll's dresseswere here laundered, being washed in a small cedar noggin owned incommon by the trio, and a miniature sad-iron, heated by specialpermission on Aunt Chaney's stove, was brought into requisition.Sometimes Aunt Chaney was in a softened mood, and fluted a ruffle on awax baby's skirt, and told wonderful tales about Mrs. Gwynn's dresses inher girlhood, "flounced to the waist, and crimped to a charm." Thencethe transition was easy to the details of her young mistress's socialtriumphs and celebrated beauty, with lovers in gangs, all sighing likefurnaces and represented as rolling in riches and riding splendid andprancing horses, the final special zest of each story being thefruitless jealousy of the red-headed Miss Mildred Fisher, eating herheart out,--this to the immature imagination of the "ladies" literallyresembled the chickens' hearts which were so daintily chopped to garnishthe dish of fried pullets amidst the parsley.

  As the rain beat against the windows and the evening fell, the triothought many a loitering-place less attractive than the chimney-nookbehind the stove in Aunt Chaney's kitchen, regaled with her stories asshe cooked, and now and then a spoonful of some dainty, administeredwith the curt command, "Open yer mouf, ladies!"

  Thus it was that the library was almost deserted when Colonel Ashleycalled more than once. Captain Baynell he found, and occasionally thejudge also. He always selected the afternoons, and after a time he waswont to glance about with such a keen, predatory expression that thetruth began to dawn vaguely on Captain Baynell. Vanity is so robust anendowment that it had been easy enough for the recipient of these visitsto appropriate wholly the interest that prompted them. It struck Baynellwith an indignant sense of impropriety when he began to rememberAshley's ardent desire to meet Mrs. Gwynn, his admiration of the glimpseof her beauty that had once been vouchsafed him, and to connect thiswith his manifestation of good comradeship and eager solicitudeconcerning his friend's health. Baynell was infinitely out ofcountenance for a moment.

  "Why, confound the fellow! He doesn't care a fig whether I live or die."Then he was sensible of a rising anger, that he should be made thesubterfuge of a systematic endeavor to casually meet Mrs. Gwynn,--likelyto prove successful in the last instance. For lowering clouds overspreadthe sky when Ashley entered late in the afternoon, and a storm soviolent, so tumultuous, broke with such sudden fury that it wasimpossible for him to take leave had he desired this. Baynell knew thatnothing was further from his comrade's wish. Ashley reconciled himselfso swiftly to Judge Roscoe's insistence that he should remain to teathat it might seem he had come for that express purpose.

  "Dat man," soliloquized the "double-faced Janus" impressively, "mus'hev' smelled de perfume of dat ar flummery plumb ter de camp. Chaney wuzjes' dishin' up when he ring de door-bell!"