Part 8 (1/2)

”Squire who?” interrupted the stranger, with a look of interest.

”Squire Erliston, of course; he lives up there in a place called Mount Sunset.”

”Yes?” said the young man, inquiringly.

”Yes,” repeated Ca.s.siopia, ”with his daughter, Miss Lizzie.”

”Has he only one daughter?”

”That's all, now. He had two; but Miss Esther ran off with a wild young fellow, an' I've hearn tell as how they were both dead, poor things! So powerful handsome as they were too--'specially him.”

”And Miss Lizzie?”

”Oh, yes. Well, you see she ain't married--she's more sense. She's awful pretty, too, though she ain't a mite like Miss Esther was. Laws, she might have bin married dozens of times, I'm sure, if she'd have all the gents who want her. She's only been home for two or three months; she was off somewhere to boardin'-school to larn to play the pianner and make picters and sich.”

”And the papa of these interesting damsels, what is he like?” inquired the young man.

”He?--sakes alive! Why, he's the ugliest-tempered, crossest, hatefullest, disagreeablest old snapping-turtle ever you saw. He's as cross as two sticks, and as savage as a bear with a sore head. My stars and garters! I'd sooner run a mile out of my way than meet him in the street.”

”Whew! pleasant, upon my word! Are all your country magnates as amiable as Squire Erliston?”

”There ain't many more, 'cepting Doctor Nick Wiseman, and that queer old witch, Miss Hagar.”

”Has he any grown-up daughters?” inquired the stranger, carelessly.

Ca.s.sie paused, and regarded him with a peculiar look for an instant.

”Ahem!” she said, after a pause. ”No; he's a widderer, with only one child, a daughter, 'bout nine months old, and a nevvy a year or so older. No, there ain't no young ladies--I mean real ladies--in the village, 'cept Miss Lizzie Erliston.”

He paid no attention to the meaning tone in which this was spoken, and after lingering a few moments longer, Ca.s.sie took her leave, inwardly wondering who the handsome and inquisitive stranger could be.

”Praps this'll tell,” said Ca.s.sie, as she lifted the stranger's portmanteau, and examined it carefully for name and initials. ”Here it is, I declare!” she exclaimed, as her eyes fell on the letters ”B. O.,”

inscribed on the steel clasp. ”B. O. I wonder what them stands for! 'B O' _bo_. Shouldn't wonder if he was a beau. Sakes alive! what can his name be and what can he want? Well, I ain't likely to tell anybody, 'cause I don't know myself. 'Has he got any grown-up darters?'” she muttered, as the young man's question came again to her mind. ”Maybe he's a fortin' hunter. I've hern tell o' sich. Well, I hope Miss Lizzie won't have anything to do with him if he is, and go throw herself away on a graceless scamp like Miss Esther did. Well, I guess, if he goes courtin' there, old Thunderclap will be in his wool, and--O, ma.s.sy on us!--if that Sally hain't let the fire go dead out, while I was talkin'

up-stairs with 'B. O.' Little black imp! won't I give it to her?”

The morning after the storm dawned clear and cold. All traces of the preceding night's tempest had pa.s.sed away, and the sun shone forth brightly in a sky of clear, cloudless blue.

The handsome young stranger stood in the bar-room of the ”Eagle,” gazing from the open door at the bay, sparkling and flas.h.i.+ng in the sun's light, and dotted all over with fis.h.i.+ng-boats. Behind the counter sat worthy Giles Fox, smoking his pipe placidly. From the interior of the building came at intervals the voice of Ca.s.sie, scolding right and left at ”You Sally” and ”little black imp.”

Suddenly the stranger beheld, emerging from a forest path on the right of the inn, a gentleman on horseback. He rode slowly, and the stranger observed that all the villagers he encountered saluted him respectfully, the men pulling off their hats, the women dropping profound courtesies, and the children, on their way to school, by scampering in evident alarm across meadows and fields.

As he drew rein before the inn-door, the stranger drew back. The old gentleman entered and approached the bar.

”Good-morning, Giles,” he said, addressing the proprietor of the ”Eagle”

in a patronizing tone.

”Good-morning, squire--good-morning, sir. Fine day after the storm last night,” said the host, rising.

”Great deal of damage done last night--great deal,” said the old man, speaking rapidly, as was his custom: ”one or two of the fishermen's huts down by the sh.o.r.e washed completely away. Yes, _sir--r_! Careless fools!

Served 'em right. Always said it would happen--_I_ knew it. 'Coming events cast their shadows afore,' as Solomon says.”

The young stranger stepped forward and stood before him.