CHAPTER X.

It naturally followeth that, to the perfect ordering and sequence of this narration, I must needs discourse of many passages the which I was not made aware of till some time after.

It is his privilege who tells a tale to speak. as though he were not holden of the laws of time and space, but might be any, or everywhere, at once when that the exigencies of his plot require him.

Accordingly, though I myself came not (save after many months and by much labor) to a full comprehension of many of the details to be found following, I shall proceed with this sad history in the same order as that in which its several passages befell.

Not many mornings after the mockery of justice recorded in the preceding chapter, there was a most unwonted coming and going about the close vicinity of Weston Hurst.

That noble mansion lay some few miles to the westward of the Grange, upon the uplands commanding charming vistas of the Hudson valley, and (of a clear day) more distant glimpses of the broad waters of the Long Island Sound.

The family inhabiting this splendid monument of our old aristocracy was of pure English stock, and therefore, in my eyes free from those qualities which made the Dutchmen ever an uncongenial and heavy race.

Blessed with abundant fortune, this ancient house of Weston was at the period of which I speak, reduced in numbers to but two members, mother and son, to wit.

The widow of my life-long friend, Colonel Sir Mordaunt Weston, had,

since the death in India of that most gallant officer, become an inmate of her sister's family at Weston Hurst.

Here these two ladies lived during their widowed years in great retirement, caring devotedly for Master Victor Weston, the sole fruit of a union as brief as it had been absorbing.

But to a lad of mettle and high, passionate humors this guardianship was of the worst kind possible, and by his fifteenth year, the petulant young gentleman had got the bit firmly between his teeth, and thenceforth was it to be dislodged neither by threats. nor coaxing. Not long thereafter, learning that I was taking my family abroad, I was so piteously importuned by these good ladies to take the young impossibility into my keeping, that Master Victor did in truth become a member of my household during a portion of our residence abroad.

For the more full discharge of what I felt was a most serious responsibility, I placed the lad-now grown a handsome and dashing youth-in the safe keeping of one of those great schools. which the good Fathers of the Society of Jesus have everywhere established. Howbeit, he made us constant visits, and I was kept advised with most 'punctilious particularity of his concerns and progress by the Fathers.

At his majority he did return to his American responsibilities and station, and on our own return, a twelvemonth after, it did not a little comfort me to have his mother and his aunt pour forth their tearful thanks for that their boy was made a noble and soundprincipled young man - and turned Papist which they had greatly feared!

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Upon the morning to which our history hath brought us, the usual quiet of that old mansion was interrupted by the arrival of many gentlemen on horseback, whose happening at such an hour to meet at such a place could not have been by chance.

Indeed, any not so entirely blinded as the good ladies could have most plainly seen both in the nervous manner and the unwonted silence of the young head of the house, that business of grave import was in hand.

But so implicit is the faith of women, that I have ever felt that infidelity toward them gaineth the major portion of its guilt, rather from the sheer pity that such unquestioning trust should be imposed upon, than from its own dishonor.

"I am expecting that Dr. Seabury shall call this morning," says Mr. Weston to the two doting ladies that day at breakfast.

"And it is not more than a week since he last called. This intimacy with clergymen is not more new than gratifying, Victor, my dear," answers. his mother.

"I trust that Dr. Seabury is in no trouble. I have heard say that the good gentleman with his increasing family and these bad times is much put to it to make ends meet," says Aunt Weston.

"His school is flourishing-besides that some of us have indirectly ministered to his more pressing needs. His business with myself is much more privy. I do not care to speak of it," humbly says Victor.

At this, his mother gave him so fond a glance of approbation and of sympathy, that I have studied that young gentleman to no avail if at that moment he was not sick at heart..

The talk then fell upon the latest news-how bold the Congress was become; how threatening the outlook seemed to peace; how violent was grown the feeling against the Tories; and what a stir the letters signed by

"A. W. Farmer" (who could the writer be?) was making.

"I have invited Mr. John Jay to bring his beautiful young bride to dinner, Victor, and other companyamong them a promising young man from the King's College, whom Mrs. Livingstone hath much commended to me. His name is Hamilton."

"I have heard of him," gruffly enough says Victor; "his name is Alexander Hamilton. And I shall be honored by the acquaintance of that imprudent gentleman."

Here fell a silence of some moments. Then as by one of those strange inspirations which women have, Aunt Weston, turning to Victor, asked: "Upon the breaking out of open war, shall you enlist?"

Why should she ask that question suddenly-and on that morning?

Mr. Weston, taken thus entirely off his guard, blushed, but immediately with great good nature, cries: "Why, Aunt, of course I shall."

"There!" says that dear, believing soul; "did I not know it? I did tell Mr. Washington as much. You will remember, Emma, that on his questioning you upon the gentry of this neighborhood, I said to him that there was one he would be sure to hear from when the time was come. Victor, thy Uncle forty years since foresaw this conflict, and he enlisted in his heart. Ye shall fulfil his promise." Thus saying, the foolish body kissed her brave nephew upon his brow, and hurried from the room, hearing him say, however: "Yes, at the right time, Aunt, they shall hear from me."

At that moment was Dr. Samuel Seabury, rector of Westchester, announced.

Of one now so well-known it needs not that I say much. not that I say much. After the setting up of the new government he found it possible to make his peace with them, and by his singular good and brave services to the denomination which he affected, he hath won everlasting

honor as a consistent Christian and learned and kindly man. And so may Heaven give rest unto his soul.

I trust it shall not now be thought a breach of charity, if I give faithfully some less known passages of such a good man's "treasonable practices," as they were then conceived.

"It were best, sir," saith Dr. Seabury upon being welcomed by the young master of Weston Hurst, "that they be warned at the lodge to suffer none to enter at the gates but them that we expect."

"I have already so provided, sir, against intrusion."

"Hath Mr. Rivington arrived?” "Truly; but in the mean disguise of a poor pedlar, who out of charity hath been permitted to lodge among our servants."

The Rector of Westchester laughed and fell into long musing before remarking: "Mr. Nathaniel Broadbent, sir-do you not expect him?”

"I dared not ask him, sir," says Victor, with much confusion.

"Eh?" Hath he begun to yield to the seductive 'New America' so soon on landing?"

"Yes-and yet, nay, nay! I pray you, reverend sir, spare me the pain of any argument concerning him who is the father of Miss Broadbent."

"I had forgotten your relation to that young lady. Surely you have not suffered your natural attachment for her to lead you into the indiscreet confiding of politics to her?"

"Sir!" cried Victor Weston, with great air, "if I be worthy of your trust at all, I must resent this seeming scrutiny of my near honor. Miss Broadbent, furthermore, might be intrusted with your confidence and yet not be much honored thereby.

"Take not offence, good friend. My confidence in thy discretion is not less great than in thine honor."

Here came three parsons more of the Episcopalian Church, and not long after, some four or five lay gentlemen of much importance.

No sooner were they come into the library, than the doors were tight closed, and much precaution taken to ensure secrecy.

Of what ensued I have no means of knowing, other than that the evidence forthcoming upon the examination of Mr. Weston's papers, showed that all those present engaged upon their oath to every way advance the cause of loyalty to the King's Majesty.

The Reverend Samuel Seabury was much encouraged to prosecute the writing of the now famous letters signed by "A. W. Farmer," which signified a Westchester Farmer, and Mr. Rivington engaged to publish them, and to devote the columns of his newspaper to the bold furthering of the cause, at any hazard.

Thus came the meeting of the conspirators to its due close. While it was holding in the great library below, Aunt Weston, writing above stairs to Mrs. Livingstone at Liberty Hall in New Jersey, dwelt lovingly and proudly upon the patriotic utterances. that morning made by "my dear nephew, Mr. Victor Weston, than whom, tell Mr. Washington from me, his country shall not find a braver son when that hour cometh which not the most unwilling can now believe far distant."

Women be ever thus in some upper region of blissful faith in us, who are below, secretly doing God knoweth what.

CHAPTER XI.

Toward dusk upon a certain Sunday evening, at that time of the year when that romantic period of the day falls early, one taking that steep path which leadeth to the left from the King's highway. hard by the gates at Waverly, would have beheld a tall young girl wrapt against the damp, chill air, pass very swiftly from the more open safety of the road into the shadowy seclusion of the pathway.

Her carriage much more than her

garb (which was indeed designedly the poorest), proclaimed her gentle, and the increasing nervousness which she betrayed with the increasing darkness, plainly declared her one less used to solitary walking abroad, toward nightfall, than one whose station had more nearly been that which her dress betokened.

Apparently intent upon arriving at 'such a destination as she might have without the loss of time, she pressed along the steep and stony path with all the haste she could; until, after innumerable windings, the footway gave upon a lane something more open to the fading light. As if relieved, the girl relaxed her efforts, and had she been observed by any occupant of the small cottage, which presently she passed, nothing of agitation or of undue haste would have provoked the notice which she apparently desired to escape.

The lane through which her way now lay was that which until recently ran at the back of our most southern woods, and so, past Major Vanderveer's cypress and fir plantations, through to the Pelham road.

Somewhere toward midway of this quite unfrequented lane was there a rude gate let through the high stone fence which was the northern boundary of the great Abbey place.

The place had in its day been quite the finest in that immediate neighborhood, having been builded out of blue stone, after the pattern of an old English Abbey, whence it derived its too pretentious name.

Surrounded by its richly cultivated park, its "ivy mantled tower," battlements, wings and buttresses, it did indeed form a most entrancing picture.

Alas! that human happiness is not ensured by any outward settings! The family of the original proprietors had come by many accidents and crimes to their untimely graves, and thus what was the ideal fabric of a home became the haunted monument of blasted hopes and dreams.

It had at length been purchased by one Seth Warner, a Puritan schoolmaster and worthy soul; but so much were his pupils wrought upon by the weird legends told them of the place, that they were ready to take oath they did not only hear mysterious sounds, but actually did see with their own eyes the grewsome spectres said to frequent the place. Thus ruin fell upon the pious man, for that no parent would be got to bring his child into so perilous a place, and it befell that the romantic building was long since suffered to remain quite vacant.

Time hath enhanced the something forced attempt of the old builders, and verily, from the surrounding hills, or coming upon the spot by moonlight, one had most certainly declared that the illusion was both most beautiful and most complete. It looked a ruined Abbey.

To the rude gateway upon the northern side of this neglected park. came on the night in question, the tali young girl whom we have followed on her lonely walk.

Without a little difficulty she contrived to open the ruinous gate, and presently found herself treading the scarce distinguishable woodland path which penetrated the very heart of the most unfrequented and secluded recesses of the demesne.

There was about her carriage and her manner the unmistakable sign of overpowering emotion. Fear and a sense of being engaged upon an expedition not more untried than perilous, did clearly struggle with some exalted purpose born, there could be no doubt, of love or duty. Nor was her shrinking from an exploit so hazardous any more natural than the quite contrary effect of some lofty motive which impelled her. Such, it hath ever been most true of women, is this tremendous conflict of convictions in us.

most

Darkness was now almost entirely fallen, when, after a walk of not less

than a mile, the maiden found herself upon the borders of the open lawns which in their better days furnished the velvet setting to the Abbey house. The mansion rose black and mysterious now against what failing light remained in the low western sky, and, for a moment, the sense of terror, and recoil, quite overpowered the lady, who was as if held by invisible, strong hands still in the cover of the woods. But the opposing influence, whatever it might be, was presently again in the ascendant, for that she suddenly broke through the thicket fringe, and stood uncertain of her course well in the open.

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Below her to the left, nestling along the hollows of the rolling sward, she could descry at length, the dark, smooth, glassy surface of a small bit of ornamental water, and at its furthest edge, reached by a rustic bridge, the black outlines of what was once a picturesque stone summer house, grotto. Quivering again under the stress of the antagonistic influences which swayed her, the tall young woman made finally in the direction of this dilapidated grotto. Uncertainty was now undone: Love (or that other passion, whatever it might be,) was become victor. A moment's walk brought her upon the bridge, which, rotten this generation since, trembled beneath even her swift, light feet.

In another instant she found herself before the door of the cavernous building.

She tried to speak, but nature hath her means of striving to the last-the woman could not, though the lover would. At that it seemed that what faint light remained, faded, and night was come upon her with its power to enhance the terrors and the sinkings of the lonely heart. Finding no voice whereby to herald her approach to those within, if any might at such uncanny hour be lodged in so uncomfortable an abode, the girl made bold to push the low and heavy oaken door,

which to her not pleased surprise, yielded too readily, and she beheld herself (alone and tortured by vague. dread) standing within. She hath oft told me that of that quarter of an hour she hath no recollection, save of the distant striking of the hour, which must have been the clock in Pelham Church, which, were the wind northeast, might have been heard so far. She saith that she, as from a trance, was roused by the faint tolling of the bell. Six! She counted them.

The hour so fearfully awaited was now come. And she was here at the appointed place. Reason and fear had been as threads of impotence tangled about her feet, but with no power to thwart or to restrain her. The risk has been more terrible than words might tell; the consequences weighed and given their full force.

The hour was come. Six tolls across the country side wrapt now in gloom. And she was there!

It might have been twenty or twenty-five more minutes, so she hath since declared, ere he, or they, with whom the rendezvous was planned, arrived-minutes when any resolution not fanned by love, methinks, would have succumbed to the chill terrors of so unique and horrible a situation.

Then came the voice, that which, albeit that it pronounced her name, sounded unearthly; buried and distant. albeit at her side.

Again she would have cried out answering, but that once more her heart did rise full to her throat, choking all utterance.

Once more her name, spoken by the familiar voice, still as if coming from

the earth.