University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
THE LADY WINFRED.

The scenery of our tale, with the principal
characters therein, is now transferred
from the valley of the Susquehannah to the
halls of `merry England.' We will not follow
the voyage of Red Beard and his party
in its details of calm and storm, but merely
inform the reader who wishes to know all
that transpires in novels, that after a long but
rather agreeable passage of eight and thirty
days from Philadelphia they reached London.

The earl had willingly accompanied them,
and, indeed seemed so desirous of making,
so far as lay in his power, atonement for his
crimes, that the unbending hostility of Robbert
Burnside yielded a little, so far even as
to pass an occasional word of kindness with
him on the voyage; but the marquis neither
spoke to him nor noticed him, save with a
stern and loathing look.

Whitlock did not accompany them, though
he was half inclined to do so; even forgetting
Kate in his regard for Ringold and his desire
as he said, `to see the affair through,'
But Griffitt dismissed him from going and
advised him to return home, take the beautiful
Kate to wife, if she was still of the same
mind, till the rich soil of his farm, study his
lessons, and be happy and content with his
condition.

Whitlock therefore went homeward, the
bearer of a letter from Ringold to his mother,
and not a little gratified that he had
Griffitt's permission to tell the whole of the
romantic story to which he had been in
some sort a party, to Kate, and as many
others as choose to listen to it. It was not,
therefore long, as the reader may guess,
before it was pretty generally known in
the valley that Red Beard the raftsman
had turned out to be an English lord, that
the recluse of the beacon had proved to be
his father and a great marquis, and they had
gone to England to take possession of their
titles and estates.

But leaving the good people of Perfect
Valley as the vale was termed, to enjoy the
telling and the hearing of the marvellous
story, which grew into an hundred shapes
ere it got to the ears of the last listener, we
will resume our narrative in a green valley
in the bosom of the British isle.

This vale was a fair scene of upland
swells, level meadows, noble parks and castles,
with here and there a village overtopped
by a gothic tower or slender spire.

In the midst of this noble scene, for it was
truly noble on every side where the eye rested,
stood a stately edifice of stone and marble,
having the air and grand outline of a
palace. It was situated facing a beautiful
lake, in the centre of which was a lovely
island crowned by an exquisite temple. There
were pleasant groves and lawnss on the borders
of the lake, and deer were grazing on
the sward or quenching their thirst by the
pebbly shores. The palace was half encircled
on the western side by a magnicent park
of old English oaks, through which wound a
broad carriage road, meandering in countless
shady curves for a full league ere it found its
way into the high road, entering it beneath an
elegant gateway, the lofty columns of which
were surmounted by couching lions.

The palace had a very princely front, and
was beautified by a spacious terrace adorned
with statues, and West Indian plants, growing
in large marble vases. The ascent to the
surperb portico of the palace was by a flight
of marble steps which led to a vestibule enclosed
by lofty corinthian columns of spotless
marble.

This stately and beautiful structure consisted
of a centre and wings united by a piazza
of the most elegant architectural proportions.
Taste, wealth, and skill seemed to have combined
to create an an abode that should rival
every other; while nature in the beauty of
the surrounding scenery lent her aid to complete
the noble effect.

It was about six in the afternoon of a lovely
summer's day when a young lady stepped
forth from one of the tall Venetian windows
of the south wing of the palace upon the
piazza. She was alone, save a very handsome
Italian greyhound that bounded before
and around her as she walked up and down
the corridor with her eyes eagerly directed
down the avenue that ran through the park,
losing its windings in its deep glades. The
sun was yet an hour high, and shining only
upon the outlines of every elevated object in
the landscape, left the masses in shadow producing
a variety the eye of taste could not
behold without admiration; and notwithstanding
the fair girl appeared to be anxiously expecting
some one, she could not prevent exclaiming
with pleased surprise, at a cloud of
foliage on the opposite side of the lake, the
crest of which catching the sunbeams, shone
like a hill of emeralds, while the base of it
lay almost in the shadows of night.

`How lovely all this is,' she said with a
sigh of mingled happiness and regret, `yet it
never fills my heart. I always find something
wanting in every scene I behold! There is
ever lingering in my memory one fair scene,
homely, mountainous and secluded, that
pleases me more than all this glorious landscape.
Whether it be the memory of dreamland
or the scenes of early childhood that I
thus love to cherish in my heart's recollection
I know not; but happier far should I be in
such a scene than in this, for it seems to me
I have been happy in it.'

`You are dispirited this evening, Lady
Winfred,' said a female in neat attire, and in
the gay cap of a femme de chambre, who
came and drew near her with a sort of half
confidential manner, like one who was as
much a friend and companion as a servant.

`No, Beatrice; I was thinking of my
childhood, as I believe it must be, though my
uncle says that I was too young to remember
anything about any other childhood than that
I have passed here.'

`Yet, my lady, you was born in the north,
I've heard your aunt say.'

`Yes; my uncle the Earl had a brother
who was a poor laird, whose child I am he
says, and that he went to London and died,
and so he took me.'

`Do you remember your father, the laird,
Lady Winfred?'

`I shall never forget his face, and noble,
clear, expressive eyes. I remember him well,
and the affectionate tones of his voice. These
I remember, though my uncle would laugh,
and try to make me think I had dreamed
about him. Hark! don't you hear the sound
of wheels down the avenue?'

`No, my lady; it is the wind. It sometimes
moans so among the old trees as night
is coming on. Did your letter say that your
uncle would be here positively to-night?'
asked the pretty attendant, with an emphasis
on the adverb.

`He did not write me, Beatrice, but Lady
Francis and Sir John.'

`That's all the same.'

`No, it is not, for hitherto he has always
written to me. I can't perceive why he
should have written over my head in this
way. Not a word, not a line to me, no more
than as if I was not in existence. He is
going to bring company with him he says.

`I wonder who it can be. Perhaps it is
some red savage Americans caught in the forest

of the new world where he's been, with
painted faces and bows and arrows for guns.
I would like to see one for all the world,
though I should be afraid too, for they say
they scalp and tomahawk little children
and ladies.'

`I do not imagine that the earl brings any
such gentlemen with him, especially as he
directed Sir John to have the state bed-room
prepared and other famous doings. So dear
Sir John is in a great bustle, and what with
preparing all the morning, and going down
to the turnpike to wait for the Earl, he has
had enough to do.'

`I shouldn't wonder if it was an Indian
prince, all decked in gold and precious jewels
from Peru that's coming, and the earl means
you shall marry him and be a princess.'

`What a fancy you've got, Beatrice. There
is no danger of my marrying prince or
peasant.'

`No, I am afraid not, Lady Winfred, for to
tell you my mind, I believe you've fell in love
with somebody when you was in London;
fore there have been three noble young gentlemen
to offer themselves to you, and you
sent them off where they come from, and then
you have been thoughtful and different from
what you used to be. I know just as well as
I stand here you are thinking of somebody
or other, and that is what makes you so altered.'

The maiden blushed and dropped her large
blue eyes to the marble pavement of the portico,
then smiling and tossing her beautiful
head with an air of pride, she said:

`No, Beatrice, no, no! I am not in love.
But you have guessed one half. There is
some person I think a great deal of at times,
but—'

`Look! there is the coach, Lady Winfred.
I see the wheels glistening among the trees.'

`I hear and see it also. It must be the
earl,' exclaimed the maiden, gazing earnestly
in the direction of the park, through which
was seen moving two carriages at an easy
pace.

As she bent forward to observe them closely,
endeavoring to recognize those in them,
her attitude was unconsciously most graceful.
She looked the pers onification of the statue
of hope. We have already said that she had
blue eyes, and beautiful eyes they were, sparkling
with good humor, an expression of intelligence
and good sense. Her face was
exceeding lovely, the feaures being without
blemish, and moulded in their just proportions
which harmonized with the shape and
size of her head. Never did a fairer brow
reflect the light, never were mouth and chin
so beantiful. Her figure was slight, yet full
enough for grace and beauty, and there was
a certain air of independence mingled with
maidenly reserve about her that was unusually
attractive. She had a proud high born
look, moreover, that showed itself in her
step and the carriage of her head. One could
not look upon her without admiration, and
without being sure that she was as amaiable,
spirited and good as she was lovely.

`It is the coach, and Sir John's head I
can see looking out of the window,' she said,
after a moment's close regard of the approaching
vehicles. `I am beginning to feel some
emotion at the thought of so soon beholding
my uncle after his long absence. So if
he should bring any of these Indian princes
you talk of, it won't do for them to see me
in tears, Beatrice, even if they are tears of
welcome.'

`No, Lady Winfred, it might spoil your
eyes.'

`You are very particular about my eyes.
But I will go in and wait in the drawing-room
to receive uncle.'

The maiden retired from the piazza as
the carraiges rolled over the lawn and drove
near the steps of the portico. Beatrice lingered,
and saw Sir John alight from the first
carriage, whose face wore a very troubled
expression. Griffitt next alighted and assisted
the earl from the carriage, and Sir
John at once conducting him into the palace
through the lines of liveried footman who

had assembled to receive their master. But
the earl passed by them with a sad expression
upon his face which was directed towards
the ground, save only when he slighty nodded
to his chief steward, who loudly hailed his
return again.

The second carriage came up, and the
steps being let down, the marquis and Robert
Burnside, the latter without his beard,
and dressed as became his rank, descended
from it and ascended the portico. The face
of Lord Robert was flushed and pale by
turns, as if he were much agitated at the
prospect of soon beholding his long lost
daughter; for the reader need not be informed
that the noble seat at which the carriages
have arrived, is that of the Earl of
* * * *.

Lady Winfred had witnessed, herself unseen,
the two parties alight, and as she gazed
on the earl's face, she could not but see that
he not only looked in feeble health, but that
his countenance wore an expression of care
and suffering. The form of Ringold was
only presented to her gaze, his features being
turned from her. But she was struck with
the venerable appearance of the marquis,
and the noble air and manly carriage of
Robert Burnside.

`Why, my lady,' cried Beatrice, running
into her presence, `there are three besides
the earl, who looks sick, and scarcely noticed
any of the household. I wonder who they
are? Something I am sure is the matter and
is going wrong, they all looked so serious.'

`I cannot divest my own mind of some
vague apprehension,' answered Lady Winfred,
`but it seems to be as much of joy as
fear. But where is my uncle that he did not
come in this way? I will go ahd meet him
in the hall, even though strangers are present.'

`My lady,' said the steward, coming in
and bowing very formally, yet wearing a
troubled look upon his usually cheerful face,
`the earl, your uncle, desires to have you
wait upon him in the library.'

`There, I said something was wrong,' cried
Beatrice. `He wouldn't have sent for you
in such a solemn way, if there hadn't been.'

`Don't fear, Beatrice; my heart tells me
that there is more joy than bitterness in its
fountains,' answered the beautiful girl, as
with a light step she followed the steward to
the library.