University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
IN WHICH A SUDDEN STOP IS PUT TO THE MUSIC.

It had been the custom ever since Diedrich Stein
instituted Christmas balls for the benefit of the public
generally, and the public house particularly, to serve
the supper in a half-finished chamber above the wood-shed;
a sort of drying-room, the walls of which, at different
seasons, were festooned with ears of seed-corn,
bunches of herbs, strings of dried apples and pumpkin,
or linen clothes fresh from the wash-tub. Here Polly
Stein had occasionally been known to give an entertainment
to the young people of the neighborhood in the
thrifty shape of a corn-husking or a quilting-bee, on
which occasions the sociability and excitement attending
the labor were made to supersede the more substantial
good cheer that might have been expected elsewhere,
but which the Steins never gave any body gratis.

On Christmas eve, however, when the supper was understood
to be paid for at so much a head, there was no
lack of creature comforts. True, the viands were arranged
without much regard to taste or uniformity, and

the city exquisite would have been sadly shocked at the
incongruities of the table. Ham, well-dressed, is always
genteel, and no one despises stuffed fowls; but, just
think of it! the former was flanked by home-made
cheese and pickled beets, and the latter by crockery
pitchers filled with hard cider. Dame Stein's pastry,
though, to use her own words, “lard was the shortenin'
she depended on mostly,” was well-baked and flaky, but
then the idea of mince and squash pies, ready cut in quarters,
and apple-sauce ad libitum? Who ever heard either
of custard puddings, pears stewed in molasses, and bowls
of cracked walnuts promiscuously intermingled with
dishes of soused pig's feet, baked beans, or sour krout?
Yet you might have attacked the table at almost
any point, and taken your choice of all these eatables.
Any other drink than cider you would have missed
from this department, because you had a standing invitation
to take “that sort of thing” at the bar, and
pay extra.

You (and by you I mean the exquisite of that age or
this), might have found still greater fault with Stein's
supper-room on another score. There was no fire place,
and in ordinary Christmas weather it was cold there,
fearfully cold. On the night of December twenty-third,
1812, you could see your own breath, and your neighbor's
— every body's breath — steaming away like so many teakettles.
After dancing, too! Why, really it would be
as much as your life was worth to venture in. Not so
with the Stein's Plains folks! Their lives were worth

more than yours or mine; at least, they could stand
more wear and tear. They were used to frosty nights
and rooms without fires. It would be a poor story if
eating and drinking couldn't keep them warm enough,
and as to the young people who had been exercising until
the girls' faces were of a uniform redness and moisture,
and until the youths of the other sex chafed within the
confinement of their best coats, they always depended
on cooling off at supper time, preparatory to beginning
again. Catch cold, indeed! It would be a miserable
tool who couldn't endure the atmosphere of Stein's
supper-room from half past eight to nine. (As the ball
had commenced at six, that was not an unreasonably
early hour for supper.) Why, it was no colder than
any of the rooms in their own houses, unless perhaps
the kitchen. The school-house, where, in the winter
months, they had all acquired the rudiments of learning,
was only warmed by the feeble stimulus of study.
The meeting-house, which had been shut up all the
week, was inconceivably chilly on Sundays, its only
artificial heat being what chanced to be contained in
the minister's sermon. It would be strange enough
if, with their systems overcharged with caloric, the
Stein's Plains folks did otherwise than welcome a
breath of fresh air.

It may be supposed, therefore, that they were moved
to astonishment and compassion when, on the company's
being ushered into the supper-room, the English stranger
shivered, buttoned up that military coat of his, and looked

in vain, first over one shoulder and then the other,
to see if he could detect some snug retreat or sheltered
corner in which he could ensconce himself and his partner
— the latter, of course, being Angie, as he had, early in
the evening, engaged to escort her to supper.

“What a barn of a place this is, Miss Cousin!” he
exclaimed; “these people are barbarians! Why, this
exposure will be the death of you! — or of me, at least,”
— was the still more urgent thought, which expressed
itself in another shiver.

“Yes, it is wretchedly cold!” responded Angie, who
would not have thought about it otherwise; but who,
seeing her genteel escort so horrified at the atmosphere,
very naturally gave a genteel shiver too.

“Let me bring you a cloak! Dear me, these farmers
and milkmaids may be able to endure it, but you, Miss
Cousin, you are more delicately constituted. I cannot
suffer you to inhale this arctic air. You would be ill,
and I should never forgive myself. Let me bring you a
wrap of some kind.”

Angie assured him his fears were groundless. She
should not take cold — at least, she did not think she
should. It had never occurred to her before that a frail
constitution was a mark of refinement; but now, there
was something so flattering in the distinction made
between her and her companions, that she voluntarily
moved from the vicinity of a window, and though she
declined the cloak, suffered the captain to untie the silken
scarf which was fastened at her waist, and tenderly fold
it around her bare neck and shoulders.

He then approached the table with the view of securing
places for himself and Angie upon one of the rough
benches that surrounded it; but, although there was a
general disposition to exercise politeness towards him,
which manifested itself by several voices exclaiming in
a breath, “Room here, cap'n! — plenty o' room here!”
he declined every offer of accommodation, and stepped
back at length to report to Angie that those country cubs
were crowding and pushing to such a degree that he
could not think of exposing her to their rudeness. “And
if I could, Miss Cousin,” he added, there is nothing there
with which I could hope to tempt you. Not that I wish
to disparage my landlady's cooking — no, upon my
word, I have no doubt many a starving man might be
made joyful around that board. But a gentleman must
be hungry indeed, much more a lady, who could stand
such a spectacle as that yonder. Why, there is an old
fellow there,” whispered the captain, confidentially,
“cutting up a turkey much in the style in which he
would chop wood, and a young woman munching ham
and gingerbread at one mouthful; — pah! Miss Cousin,
I will not disgust you by any further particulars. I
know you are very amiable. So am I; but there are
limits to toleration;” and he laughed a meaning laugh,
which seemed to say, “We will bear with these people
good-naturedly, but cannot be quite blind to their vulgarity,
you know.” Angie joined mechanically in this laugh
of derision. She would not have hurt her neighbors'
feelings openly for the world, but she could not resist a

glow of satisfaction at the contrast which the captain
must see between her manners and those of her country
friends, to make him so confidential in his criticisms.
Besides, there did seem something gross to her to-night
in the way the people were eating. The conflict between
pique and vanity, which was waging in her own breast,
had quite robbed her of her usually healthy appetite.

“You have put yourself under my charge, Miss
Cousin,” continued the captain, “so now let me cater
for you. Let us beat a retreat to the little sitting-room
below. There is a delicious bed of coals on the hearth.
I will persuade Stein to bring us a cold fowl, some
biscuit, and a bottle of Madeira. That will be luxury;
I shall be made happy in the only society I crave this
evening; and you — O, you will be generous, and bear
with me, if not for charity's sake, for the sake of the
charming little supper I will arrange for you there.
Come!” and he held out his hand in a lively way that
was quite irresistible.

It seemed rather invidious to leave the rest of the
company; but, on the other hand, there was something
tempting in the thought of such a select and exclusive
arrangement. Then it is so easy for a man of the world
to flatter a rustic coquette into taking airs. So Angie
entered into the spirit of the proposal, and in a few
minutes she and the captain were seated in front of the
sitting-room fire, with a little table between them, while
Stein, who had staid below to tend the bar, was, in compliance
with Captain Josselyn's suggestions, bringing

choice little instalments from Dame Stein's private larder,
and hinting his congratulations to Angie upon her privileged
lot.

The captain certainly fulfilled his promise to provide a
choice little repast. He carved the fowl in the most
dainty fashion, dressed a few raw oysters in the shell,
cut delicate slices from the roll, uncorked the wine himself,
that no less skilful hands might disturb the dregs,
and so gratified Angie's naturally fastidious taste by the
dexterous manner in which he served and presented the
refreshment that, to her own surprise, her appetite revived,
and she found herself making an excellent meal,
and even sipping, now and then, the amber wine, which
the gallant captain recommended as an antidote to the
cold.

“If you will excuse me for a moment, Miss Cousin,”
said he, when the compliments of the table were at an
end, “I will bring my guitar, and sing you the little
Spanish song I spoke of the other day.”

Angie expressed the most näive delight at the proposition.
The captain ran up stairs to his room, and in a
moment reappeared with the instrument. It was a love
song which he now proceeded to sing. The words were
unintelligible to Angie, but the action was vehement and
passionate, and the singer contrived to throw so much
meaning into his voice, gestures, and expression, that
Angie felt herself tremble and blush beneath the searching
dark eye, which, somehow, she could neither meet
nor escape, and which exercised a sort of magnetic
effect upon her will.

We have hitherto spoken of the captain as a young
man; but he was not so very young after all. A smooth
complexion, jet black hair and eyebrows, slight figure,
and quick mercurial temperament, imparted to him a
youthful air; but on closer observation it was easy to
detect those sharp lines about the temples, that slight
hollowness of the eyes, and still more that assurance
of manner, which indicate a ripened experience. As
Angie sat opposite to him, the object of his fascinations
and gallantry, she felt the advantage he had over her in
this as in other respects. She realized that he had confidence
and courage, the former in view of his social
position, the latter, of his superior years. These were
traits Angie had never yet contended with in a lover, and
they made her yielding, timid, childlike. So she sat
listening like a charmed bird.

Meanwhile a farm wagon rattled up to the door; there
were heavy footsteps in the principal entry, there were
shadows passing and repassing the windows. This was
not an evening when one could look for much privacy in
the sitting-room of Stein's Tavern, opening, as it did, both
on the main entrance and kitchen. Still, a public house
is every man's castle. If Angie and the captain had that
claim to the sitting-room which belongs to first occupants,
strollers on the platform outside, or loungers in the entry,
had none the less the right to peep in at the windows
or listen to the music. One party, however, could scarcely
be justified in interrupting the other, and it was therefore
a barefaced intrusion as well as an insult, when a tall

figure, which had for a few moments darkened one of the
windows, stalked suddenly into the room, walked directly
up to the little refreshment table, brought down his fist
upon it with a thump which set all the crockery to rattling,
and in a voice of wrath exclaimed, “Stop that!”

The music stopped. Angie sprung up, and stood opposite
Geordie, angry, bewildered, mortified. She did
not speak; but the captain, coolly retaining his seat, and
suffering his white hand to toy with the guitar strings,
said “Really!”

“Yes; stop it, I say!” continued Geordie, fiercely;
“I want to speak to Angie Cousin.”

“Ah! some friend of yours, Miss Angie?” queried
the captain, surveying George with undisguised contempt.
“If so, I am dumb.” And he waved his hand, as if foregoing
any right to take offence in consideration of its being
Angie's affair, and a matter quite beneath his own
notice.

“Go on with your business, young man,” he added,
with a patronizing air; and quietly laying down his
guitar, the captain took the attitude of one willing to
wait the pleasure of the other two, in consideration of
the amusement he was likely to derive from the rustic
scene.

If the man of the world despised the country youth,
the sentiment was mutual. George surveyed the Captain
from head to foot, as a man might look at a monkey.
“You keep clear of this, now; that's your safest plan!”
he said, by way of a warning; then turning his back

on the stranger, he came between him and Angie, and
faced her angrily.

She was angry too. Her pride was irritated at
George's behavior, the whole responsibility of which the
captain had thrown upon her. Before he could speak,
accusingly or otherwise, she, as usual, took the offensive,
saying, “Ain't you ashamed of yourself, Geordie?”

“You are ashamed of me, Angie. I've seen that
plain enough this long while.”

“And no wonder!”

“O, no, indeed; no wonder at all!” was the sarcastic
rejoinder. “You've kept such grand company of late,
it's quite time you should have done with old friends.”

“Old or new, I shall choose what company pleases
me, you may depend upon it.”

“Of course you will.”

“And that won't be yours, George Rawle, — unless,”
she added, by way of qualification, — “unless you
should become a very different man from what you are
now.”

“And what am I? That's the very thing I've come
here to know,” said George, defiantly. “Speak out;
what am I?”

“You're a rude, unmannerly fellow.”

“Is that all? Go on.”

“All! no. I can't tell you what you are. I don't
know what you are, nor care. I wish you'd go away.”
And Angie, worried and vexed, glanced anxiously in the
direction of the captain. He was leaning against the

mantel-piece, smiling and picking his teeth (the last not
a very elegant act for one of his breeding; a hint, perhaps,
at his estimation of the company he was in).

The captain's coolness and George's persistency exasperated
Angie. She was determined to vindicate herself
in the eyes of the former from any complicity in the misconduct
of her country lover.

“You shan't stand there questioning me,” she said, accompanying
her words with a positive motion of her head.
“I won't bear it, Geordie; do you hear me?”

She might well add this emphatic query, for either he
was deaf, or what was equally incredible, had no intention
to obey her. With his arms folded, he stood obstinate
and determined. She turned away from him, but he
again planted himself before her. She stopped short,
and frowned.

“It is of no use, Angie,” he said. “I won't go till
you have answered my question.”

“What question?”

“You shall tell me what you think of me; what they
all think. I have a right to know, and I will.”

“Is the young man's character in jeopardy?” asked
the captain, in mock anxiety.

The question and the manner were so ludicrous that
Angie, though provoked at their sarcasm, could not resist
a smile.

The blood rushed into George's face as he saw himself
the object of ridicule. Perhaps the spirit he had drank
too was getting into his head, for his eye grew wild and

restless, and his tone was increasingly vehement, as he
exclaimed, “O, it is sport to you, is it, to see a poor
fellow driven to the wall? Angie,” — and he grasped her
arm, — “listen to me one minute, and tell me the truth,
if you have one grain of pity left for an old friend.
Every body has slighted me lately; not you only, but
every body. What is the reason?”

He was terribly in earnest. Angie felt it, and would
either have expostulated with him or answered seriously,
but for a diversion given to her feelings by a jeering suggestion
from the captain that “the reason” seemed
palpable.

At this intimation she stopped short, looked distrustfully
at George, and withdrew from his touch.

“You let us two alone, will you?” said George, turning
upon the captain and tightly grasping the handle of
his whip.

“Certainly,” was the prompt response. “I am at
Miss Angie's bidding. She has but to say the word, and
I forbear to disturb the harmony that seems to exist
between you;” and, as the captain stooped to pick up a
bit of the golden wheat which had fallen from Angie's
hair, he caught her eye, and the smile on his face was full
of irony.

It was an even chance that minute whether poor Angie
should laugh or cry. She had never felt so babyish and
miserable, but, on the other hand, her pride had never
before been so stung; Nature craved the relief of tears,
but with the consciousness of the captain's eye upon her

she resolved not to make a fool of herself, and so forced
a laugh — and a most hollow, unnatural laugh it was.

The captain caressed the bit of wheat, and turned his
face to the fire, ostensibly to conceal his disposition to
mirth.

And Geordie! They had much better have struck
him, especially Angie. The smart of the blow might
have been soothed long before the recollection of that
mocking laugh could be effaced. The remembrance of
it was to rankle deep in Geordie's soul, and in Angie's
own soul deeper yet.

He was reckless enough before—he was maddened now.
He was not intoxicated, at least not until that instant.
The captain's insinuation had wronged him. It was
true he had eaten nothing since morning, and following
upon his long fast the draught he had taken from Nick
Bly's bottle had doubtless helped to excite his brain. Still
he had hitherto been master of his words and acts; now
he was the victim of rage, shame, and injured love rather
than of alcohol.

“It has come to this, has it?” he cried. “You are
making game of me — you and that puppy!” — and his
glance shot rapidly from Angie to the Captain, then
fixed itself on her. “You give yourself up to him, do
you, and let me go to — hell!” — and coming close to
her, he whispered the last word hoarsely in her ear.

Angie was frightened. She uttered a slight exclamation
of horror, and looked up in George's face with
an anxious, bewildered expression.

Perhaps there was a shade of sympathy in this upturned
look which emboldened the youth, for he now
caught her hand, — “You have to choose between us
two, Angie,” he hoarsely ejaculated, “for it's now or
never.”

“Come, come, young man, enough of that!” interrupted
the captain, starting forward with impudent confidence
in his right to act as umpire, and break up this
scene the moment the young man, as he termed him,
appeared to be going too far; and drawing Angie's arm
through his, he led her a few steps towards the door,
saying, in a protecting tone intended to reassure her, —
“let me take you under my wing. See! the musicians
have returned from their supper, — we will forget this
vulgar contretemps in a lively reel.”

But he was not destined to bear away his partner so
easily. George sprang forward, caught Angie's disengaged
hand, and contended for the possession.

“Let go that lady's hand!” cried the captain, imperatively.

“For Heaven's sake don't leave me so, Angie?”
implored George.

Angie looked helplessly from one to the other. The
contest had brought them all to the door opening upon
the entry and opposite to the bar-room.

“Hands off, you scoundrel!” persisted the captain,
“or I'll call for help.”

George's answer was a muttered oath and his horsewhip
raised in the air.

Angie screamed, struggled to escape from them both,
and looked around her as if in the hope of some timely
interference. Her look and cry were responded to
instantly, but in the last way she could ever have
dreamed of.

An old man, very old, came out of the bar-room.
With an eye full of rebuke, and a hand raised in
solemn warning, he faced the disreputable scene, and
said, in a voice of authority, “Young men, stand
back! let go the gal! Is that the way to treat a
woman?”

They all retreated a step or two within the sitting-room.
George dropped Angie's hand involuntarily;
the captain would have retained her arm within his,
but she proudly withdrew it, though maintaining her
place close at his side. The white-headed veteran,
whose puritanic dress and severe demeanor were calculated
to inspire respect, if not fear, looked gravely
from the, to him, unwonted sight of a couple attired
in ball-room costume to the equally unfamiliar aspect
of the country-bred youth, who, with his jockey riding-jacket,
mud-splashed boots and trousers, flushed face,
matted hair, and horsewhip still vibrating in his hand,
was a yet more indecorous object in the eyes of the
stern old man.

“George Rawle,” he said at length, fixing his eye on
Geordie, and speaking, syllable by syllable, “is that
you?”

George hung down his head, and made no answer.

The unexpected apparition of his uncle, Baltimore
Rawle, seemed to have paralyzed him.

“Boy,” said the old man, after a pause that was
heavy with meaning, “you are a disgrace to your
ancestors!”

George looked up hastily. There was an instantaneous
flash of his eye, which was the next minute
cast down, as before. Accustomed, from earliest boyhood,
to hold this venerable member of his family in
the utmost awe, he might hate or curse him behind
his back, but he could not defy his presence.

“It is well your father never lived to see this day,”
continued the old man, — “never lived to have his gray
hairs brought down with sorrow to the grave by an
unworthy son. I pity your poor mother.”

The hand which held the whip trembled at these
words, perhaps with rage, perhaps with shame, possibly
from some more heart-stirring emotion.

Baultie Rawle now turned to Angie with, “What is
your name, young woman?”

“Angevine Cousin,” she answered, humbly.

“I can't speak that; but no matter; you've kept company
some with him of late, miss?” and he pointed to
his nephew.

Angie, still humbly, signified a sort of assent. The
captain laughed. Was nothing serious in that man's
eyes?

“And you've dismissed him” (the old man judged
this from the attitude of the parties in the scene he

had just witnessed). “You've done right, miss, and
let me tell you, me, his uncle, that you're well rid of
him.”

Perhaps Angie was not so convinced of this. At all
events, at this crisis, she moved a step further from the
captain, a step nearer to Geordie.

“And you, Mr. Military-man,” said old Rawle, addressing
the captain, and taking a somewhat curious
survey of his person, “you're a stranger, I reckon, in
these parts. If so, let me give you a piece of wholesome
advice. Quarrelling and bandying words is always
disgraceful, especially when there's a woman consarned,
and I warn you, as a friend, that the young man I just
caught you wrangling with, though he's come of good
stock, is a rotten bough. Every body knows him for an
idler. It is easy enough this minute to see `drunkard'
written on his face, and if you will take an honest
man's word for it, he is little short of a thief. Such
society is corrupting. His own relations are ashamed
of him, and I, his father's brother, and the head of his
family, think it a solemn duty to put strangers on their
guard against him, as I would against any other nuisance.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the captain, with a mock
gravity, which the old man, in his simplicity, took
for gratitude, “I'll take your advice.”

As he spoke and bowed, he dropped his bit of wheat
and stooped to reclaim it; but Angie, too quick for him,
snatched it from the floor, and holding it fast, drew still

nearer to Geordie. It almost looked like going over to
his side.

Until now George had not changed his position, had
only once raised his head; but to be thus publicly
traduced and held up to scorn was more than he could
bear. He set his teeth, clinched his fist, and advanced
a step towards Baultie, with “You lie, old man! by
Heaven, you lie! To suspect your own nephew's honest
character is false enough, and mean enough, without
branding him to the world as a villain!”

Baltimore Rawle was a stern, uncompromising man,
accustomed to exact obedience and enforce discipline.
That George should venture to accuse and defy him,
was adding sacrilege to sin.

“Back!” he exclaimed, as he would have to a
dog; “back — boy, and be silent!” and, as if to enforce
his words, he repelled George with his arm, and
compelled him to retreat, until he stood with his back
braced against the wall.

Angie crept close to him. He burned with wrath —
so did she. That she should slight or ill use him herself,
was one thing; but that any body else should defame
him, was quite another. At this moment, the two
made common cause. “Stand there, George Rawle,”
continued the old man, imperatively, “and listen to what
I have to say. I call Heaven to witness,” — and he raised
his hand, as one does in taking an oath, — “and you, Mr.
Military-man,” to the captain, “and, you too, Diedrich
Stein,” to Stein, who, with eager lips apart, had first

stolen into the entry, and then into the room, and so had
heard and seen all; “and —” he was going to include
Angie, but something in her look forbade him, so
he summed up his audience with, “I call all of you to
witness that this ungrateful boy has this night insulted
and given the lie to his old uncle; that he deserves my
curse and shall have it.”

Then turning again towards George, he went on thus:
“If you'd grown up the honest, peaceable lad you gave
promise of, the fruits of fourscore year of industry might
all ha' been yourn, and with 'em a blessing. But now,
go where you will, and live as you will, you son of
iniquity! Wrangle, riot, and be drunken; spend other
men's money, and wallow in your own sin; but remember
that you carry with you all your life the legacy of
an old man's curse, and that after death he will be a
witness against you at Heaven's bar. Now begone, and
don't let me ever see your face again in this world.”

Blinded with passion and pale with rage, George
stood and heard his uncle out, then slowly raised his
clinched fist, but met the unflinching eye of the old man,
and his resolution failing him, the hand dropped as if
palsied. He then glanced vacantly at the faces around
him, but made no movement to depart. A sly gleam
of satisfaction shot through the decent veil of regret
which Diedrich Stein's countenance was wearing. The
captain's features manifested weariness and disgust of
the whole scene. Angie's face alone expressed real
sympathy for either party. The blood had mounted to

her temples, and her eye absolutely glared with anger,
as she followed every look and word of Baultie Rawle.

“Take yourself off now, boy!” he said, seeing that
George still hesitated. “Your uncle Stein will give
you no harbor here, not if he is his own friend or
mine,” and Baultie waved his hand in the direction of
the door.

Stein, with his usual servility, muttered something
about being sorry to turn a relation out of doors, but
that Baultie was the best judge of what was right. George
stood a minute more, a prey to passions so conflicting
as to render him torpid; then with a start which seemed
to impart an electric shock to every body present, he
rushed out of the room and the house, dashed through
the line of light which radiated from the tavern
windows, and was lost in the darkness beyond.

Forgetting every thing but her own dreadful anxiety,
Angie pressed her face against the window-pane and
saw him depart; saw more than she had dreamed of
seeing, or was likely soon to forget; for, as he shot past
the bar-room door, he had sufficient time and presence
of mind to make a signal to a man who had been waiting
for him there, — the same shabby, bloated man, with
the sore finger and greedy eye, whom Angie had seen
in his company when she alighted from her father's
carryall that evening; she also saw the man, in response
to the signal, come out of the tavern and follow
in the direction George had taken, — and the man was
Nicholas Bly.

“Voila!” at this instant, exclaimed Mr. Cousin, presenting
himself in the door-way. “Ah, Monsieur Capitaine.
I 'ave found you at last. You are a man of
much resource. Ma foi! You would make one boulevard
de Paris out of de leetle parloor of Monsieur
Stein;” and the old Frenchman glanced at the tête-à-tête
table at which the captain and Angie had been supping,
and rubbed his hands in high glee. “Eh bien!” he
continued, in a different tone, as, taking a second survey
of the group on whom he had intruded, he detected the
discordance between his own humor and theirs; “you are
not one party of pleasure I tink. Monsieur Rawle,” —
and turning to the old man, in whose rigid face and
figure the quick instincts of Mr. Cousin detected the
kill-joy of the occasion, — “I did not 'ave expect to see
you here. I hope you 'ave ver' good health;” and,
bowing respectfully, Mr. Cousin stepped up to shake
hands with his aged fellow-townsman.

“I am here by accident, sir,” answered Baultie, with
emphasis, and taking no notice whatever of the offered
hand. “My wagon trace gave out a few rods yonder,
else you may depend upon it I would never have made
myself a witness to such sinful fandangoes as that;”
and he pointed an abhorrent finger at the dancers, now
returning in a hurry from supper, and making a noisy
rush into their ball-room. “Such spectacles are risky
for young men, but for old men they are scandalous.
Have they put my horse to, Stein? if so, the sooner
I'm on the road the better.”

Stein started to make the necessary inquiry, and the
iron old man followed him without bidding any one
good night.

The Frenchman, rebuked and crest-fallen, shrugged
his shoulders, and drew near the fire, as if he felt a chill
creeping over him.

“Take a hand at piquet, sir, and a glass of wine?”
suggested the captain, with an air of perfect unconcern.
“Bring another glass, Stein, and a pack of cards,” he
called over his shoulder to the retreating landlord; at
the same time seating himself at the table, and drawing
a chair up opposite to him for Mr. Cousin.

The latter did not take it at once, but stood with his
back to the fire warming himself.

“You will catch one cold at dat window, ma chere,”
he said to Angie, who seemed to be looking out at the
night. “Beside, if dat big ogre man see you dere when
he come to drive away, he will give you one look to kill.”

“I'm not cold, papa,” said Angie, with difficulty
commanding her voice, for the poor girl was crying.
The captain prudently forbore to add his expostulations.

Stein now came hurrying back with the wine-glass
and cards. “None of the cleanest, cap'n,” he said,
apologetically, to his guest, as he handed him the
pack, “but I believe there's the right number. Real
Madary! twenty year old; cap'n's own private stock!”
he whispered to Mr. Cousin, as he filled the glass for
him. The captain, slightly wincing, shuffled the dirty

cards; Mr. Cousin sipped his wine, smacked his lips,
and declared himself “bien content.” They began to
play.

For ten or fifteen minutes the silence of the little sitting-room
was only broken by the noise from the adjacent
kitchen, and such ejaculations as “Point!” “Sequence!”
or, “Your play, sir!”

“Will we make one more adventure?” asked Mr.
Cousin, as the game terminated in the captain's favor.

“Certainly,” replied the obliging antagonist,” — that
is, unless Miss Cousin will honor me with her hand for
another dance;” and he looked inquiringly at Angie.

“Me? O, no,” answered Angie, slightly turning her
head. “I'd rather not dance any more.” Then, wiping
away the few tears she had shed, and smothering the
many that were unwept, she ventured to approach her
father, and say, “I am tired, papa. I want to go home.”

“Eh bien, ma chere, I am ver' content,” responded the
ever complacent little Frenchman. “We shall go home.
You 'ave dance much. I have some fatigue also, — and
dat small Jehu dat is waiting to drive the equipage, —
I 'ave pity for that garçon. He will be sleeping on
some chair. I shall go this minute to find him. Yes,
yes, ma chere, it is ver' good resolve; we shall go
home.”

The pleasure - loving little Frenchman lingered one
moment, however, at the fire — just long enough to replenish
his glass, and while pledging his entertainer to
give Angie the chance she desired, to slip away with
only a hasty good night to Captain Josselyn.

The captain loitered some time in the entry-way, with
the intention of escorting her to the equipage, which
was not long in making its appearance. But any girl
who knows how to win attention, knows how to evade
it at will. So Angie contrived to run down stairs at a
moment when his back was turned, and by the time he
was again on the lookout, the tall carryall was swinging
away from the door.

“Ah, Miss Angie, you leave us early!” were Stein's
parting words, as he, always on hand, put up the steps,
and closed the door of the carriage. “You carry all before
you while you stay, but you don't forget the old adage,
that folks must get all their beauty-sleep on the early
side o' midnight. The rule is a good rule for most folks,
but in your case it works to a charm, I must say.”

Angie had no spirit for responding to Stein's compliments.
She was only too glad to lean back in the
carriage and be left to her own thoughts. Still, as the
vehicle wheeled round the corner, and took the cross-road,
its passengers could scarcely escape a full view of the ball-room,
visible through its long line of windows. Angie
gave one look, and, — O strange contrariety of human
nature! — in spite of all she had felt and suffered that
night, owing partly, perhaps, to this very circumstance,
she experienced a sudden thrill of mortification and
chagrin as she caught sight of the gallant captain standing
up in a country-dance that was just forming, courtly,
self-possessed, handsome as ever, and apparently engrossed
by the charms of Polly Stein.

Whether Polly had sought him or he her, how long
they danced together, and what time the ball broke up,
are matters with which we have nothing to do. The
belle of the ball has gone home, and we have no motive
for outstaying her.