Roslyn's Trust. A novel

Chapter I. Unbidden Guests

IT HAD been a trying day for Captain Westover. A storm of sleet and wind, of snow and hail, seemed to have encompassed his stone farm-house in the Berkshire Hills with a direct and cruel persistency, rendering it equally impossible for him to drive over to Stockbridge or Lenox, or to work peacefully at home — since, as the usually good-tempered old man argued to himself, how could you ask a faithful horse to accomplish what ten men would not undertake, namely, the making of a path over this roughest and hilliest part of the Berk shires? And who could prepare a treatise on the con dition of the mind during sleep with every window in the house rattling in response to the elements, with a consciousness that your housekeeper was likely to have a fit of the tantrums and vent them upon you at supper time, and possibly continue in the same frame of mind until the sky cleared and Joel, her resolute if silent lord and master, could be induced to shovel a path out to the main road, and thence to Norton's grocery?

Qaptain Westover, however, had not spent ten years on the plains and as many more in the loneliest of all Northern stations without having learned some philoso phy; and accordingly, about five o'clock on this all-im portant day in my story he gave up the idea of any literary occupation, and with a view to investigating Mrs. Beck's frame of mind, possibly appeasing it, went down to his quaint little parlor, where a generous fire on a hearth designed by the Captain for warmth and cheeriness was the only illumination, shoAving in queer fantastic shapes the Captain's trophies of the North and West, now and again lighting up some piece of antique furniture, or perhaps bringing into momentary promi nence the dark windows against which the white snow flakes were rushing madly. Captain Westover made a light, and stood still a moment in the center of the old-fashioned room, his head slightly on one side and a queer pucker about his lips as he listened to the sounds of Mrs. Beck's voice in the somewhat distant kitchen.

" Joel's turn now," the Captain said to himself with a chuckle, " but it'll be mine next. However," he added, hopefully, "if she only makes bread sauce with that chicken, I shan't care!" for a period of baldest mo notony in affairs of the cuisine during his frontier life had left the Captaiu with the tastes of an epicure and the anxieties of a chef — both of which would account for his long endurance of Mrs. Beck as housekeeper and factotum, she being excellent in the department which, of all others in domestic life, Captain Westover considered important. The few friends whom he occasionally visited declared that this accounted for his preferring a single life. No woman could live in peace with Mrs. Beck, and no woman could hope to compete with her in the affairs of the kitchen. Generally speaking, she treated her em ployer and her husband fairly well.

The small stone house was scrupulously neat; the Captain's linen was mended and cared for admirably; his somewhat military habits were humored, and his household accounts carefully and moderately kept. Add these elements of peace to the most perfect of English cooking, and what more, inquired the Captain, could or should the heart of man desire? — especially a heart which held its scars — honor able wounds — in the warfare of a love about which, if the Captain never spoke, he was never forgetful. The long ago which had seen that sad battle-field and defeat seemed nearer as he lived on in his lonely, self-indulgent fashion, and could be cherished best in the contented, dreamy solitude he had chosen on leaving his profession of arms. " I wonder — " the Captain was beginning"to himself, as he moved his easy chair toward the fire — " I wonder whether " His chair was just in its place.

He was standing behind it, deciding as to the advisability of an interview on the subject of bread sauce, when suddenly the wide, low window near the fire showed a queer illumination— the flash of a lantern, surely, gleaming redly against the dark pane. Then, revealing for an instant the outline of a face, back and forth the lantern swung, a red spot breaking through the storm, and as suddenly disappear-: ing. "Good heavens!" ejaculated the Captain, "who on earth can have come up the road on such a night?" But an instant later he was at his own front door, had pushed it open, and regardless of the pelting storm stepped out, peering about for the gleam of the lantern and a sight of the man who carried it. Both reappeared. Ploughing his way through the snow-drift came a tall, burly figure, with arm uplifted so that the lantern might the better guide him, and in answer to the Captain's "Halloo!

Who's there?" a deep voice came back, " Isn't this Captain Westover's? I've brought travelers over from Stockbridge, and we can't get no further." Man and lantern were now on the door-step, and be fore answering, the Captain drew both within. " Oh, you're Bill Farley, ain't you?" the Captain asked, as an honest, homely and familiar face was revealed, while Bill nodded and began shaking off his envelopment of snow. "They would come — had to get on, the gentleman said; but I'll be durned if I can get a step further — 'tain't no use — and one of them's — sick." Bill uttered the last word with a curious sort of hesitation in his strong, monotonous voice. "Good gracious!" ejaculated the Captain, helplessly. " I told them," proceeded Bill, " as how I knew you would give shelter for the night, anyway.

I'll see in the morning what can be done, but it ain't a night a dog could run alone." " I know, I know," the Captain said hurriedly, a dozen visions of what this unexpected hospitality might entail chasing themselves through his mind; but fore most was the knowledge that Bill was perfectly right. Shelter, of course, was to be looked for — and given. " Two, did you say?" he temporized. " Two gentlemen — one — sick." Again the same du biousness of tone. " Can you get them up here?" the Captain asked, relieved to find out the sex of his unbidden guests. " Oh, yes. I'll leave the horses standing — 'tain't fur to the gate — and we'll carry him between us." Whether or not Bill feared that discussion might alter the Captain's frame of mind, he vanished almost as suddenly as he had appeared; and the Captain, standing in the door-way, saw the gleam of his lantern spotting the white path to the gate, a short distance beyond which was a massive dark object — Bill's carriage, which certainly no horses could be expected to draw farther.

If there had been time for a consultation with Mrs. Beck, I doubt whether the Captain would have con sidered it advisable. In the presence of strangers driven by the storm to ask for hospitality she could not venture to dispute the Captain's wisdom in admitting them; and there was a spare room above always kept in readiness, though rarely used, where a fire could be quickly lighted. This revolved through the Captain's mind in the five minutes which elapsed before, moving up the little path, came a shapeless object, at last revealed and fairly defined as Bill, aud a tall man in a fur-lined coat, supporting between them a slender, heavily-enveloped man's figure. The first sight of a pale, elderly face, luminous dark eyes, and features clearly, exquisitely cut, but marred by some strange mental weakness, sent Captain West over's hesitation to the winds. ' The invalid, who was slowly being brought into the cottage, was evidently no ordinary man — no ordinary sufferer.

All of the Cap tain/s faculties were alert, and he moved forward to assist Farley and his companion with their burden. "You are very kind. The man has explained to you, I suppose?" This was spoken by the gentleman in the fur coat, whom the Captain — now within his own door-way — saw to be a remarkably fine-looking man of forty-five or there abouts, blonde in hair, beard, and complexion, but with curious dark eyes, which gave brilliancy and a certain fascination to his face. " My poor friend is not at all well," this impressive looking stranger continued. " Had I known or realized what a night it was, I should not have ventured out." By this time they had contrived to seat the invalid in the chair before the fire. Captain Westover, after some words of greeting, vanished to acquaint Mrs. Beck with the "surprise party" ready for her roast chicken and bread sauce, Farley went off to his horses, and the Captain's guests were left for a few moments alone.

"Is it all right, Roslyn?" The invalid asked the question in a timid, feeble voice, lifting his feverish eyes to the face of the man be fore him. "Yes indeed, Morrell— all right. We are just resting here a little while." f How long?" " Until you feel better. Now keep still." Something more authoritative was in his tone with these words; and the gentleman called Roslyn, observ ing their good effect, took off his coat and began a slow, critical survey of the room. "Army officer — so the fellow said; retired;, very much of a recluse — eccentric. H'm, h'm. I must make some notes." The man's thoughts flew rapidly in spite of the per fect immobility of his countenance, the somewhat sleepy look which had come into his handsome eyes, the lids of which half-drooped as he moved about the room. Each detail of furniture or decoration was carefully studied.

The sword and gun — the battered-looking musket — the faded army cap and canteen which had hung for many a day above the narrow book-case at one side — the Indian souvenirs — photographs of a desolate looking garrison, of a snow-bound, bleak coast, with a group of one-storied, to strange eyes commonplace, buildings — all these quiet but significant reminders of the Captain's past were investigated by the stranger as thoroughly as though a report of their character, quality, and presumable value, were to be given some anxious auctioneer or sheriff; and while the invalid dozed before the fire his active-minded companion jotted down certain notes in a pocket memorandum-book — brief enough, and with queer abbreviations, but which clearly described the Captain's comfortable and homelike little interior, the date, November 13, 188-, and "a wild storm — show and wind lashing the window-panes," be ing clearly added, Captain Weston returned to find his guests in much the same position in which he had left them, and follow ing him was Mrs. Beck, wonderful to relate comforta ble in temper and expression, the Captain having, with consummate tact, roused every fiber of feminine curi osity within her concerning these unexpected but evi dently interesting guests.

" This is my housekeeper, Mrs. Beck," the Captain said, smiling with satisfaction in the success of his finessing, as he waved a hand toward the stout, comely looking woman, whose eyes traveled from one face to the other— resting, however, with most interest or fas cination upon Mr. Roslyn's face. "You know my name, I suppose, and may I ask yours?' " Certainly. It was an omission — not intentional, of course." Mr. Roslyn's smile was very pleasant, even if con fined only to his well-cut mouth, which was not hidden by the full, short, blonde beard. He drew a card-case from his pocket and handed a square pasteboard to the Captain. " My friend's name is Morrell," he said in a low, somewhat melancholy tone — "Archibald Morrell. I may as wrell say at once that I was just conveying him to a private hospital near Albany.

You see, of course " They were all standing back of the invalid's chair, and the Captain lifted his eyes from the card upon which "Mr. Paul Roslyn's" name was inscribed, to follow that gentleman's sympathetic glance in the direction of his suffering friend. " It is a, strange kind of mental affliction/' he continued. " Came on, I feel sure, from overwork; but we have every hope of a cure. Perfect rest — good treat ment — I hope this will accomplish the result; although, poor fellow, he has nothing to live for." "Very sad," murmured the Captain. "Is he ever violent?" Mr. Roslyn shook his head. "Never, poor fellow! Just as docile as you see him now; but he sleeps hours of every day and night. A very curious case, the doctors think." " Interesting — interesting — very," said the Captain quickly.

" I dabble a little in medical science myself, and these subjects are most fascinating. After supper we must discuss the question of your friend's case further. Perhaps you had better see your room; and we can get Mr. Morrell there, I suppose?" It was accomplished — with the less difficulty since the invalid's drowsiness made the prospect of a comfortable bed inviting, and in an hour's time he had partaken of a light supper, brought up most cheerfully by Mrs. Beck, and was fast asleep, as peacefully as a child, lying in the big four-poster wdiich occupied a good share of space in the Captain's spare room; but it was a large room, with four windows, a goodly fire-place, and sub stantial furniture, the writing-table at one side being well supplied, and every convenience for the comfort of those rare guests of the Captain's being provided.

Left alone there for a time, Paul Roslyn fell to wondering whether the Captain might not prove a more indulgent host even than he seemed. Suppose, during the next week, which was one of such importance, and to be of necessity so active, Captain Westover could be induced to receive Morrell as a guest, if not a boarder? It would certainly simplify matters in a most opportune way. Mrs. Beck's roast fowl and bread sauce, roast pota toes, a capital pudding, rounds of buttered toast, and lightest of biscuit, with a bottle of the Captain's rarely used Burgundy, were duly set forth on a table honored by the best china, glass and srlver, when Mr. Roslyn was summoned to supper, while Farley, having with Joel's aid stabled the horses and put up his carriage, was regaled the kitchen; and in spite of the storm and the fact of the invalid sleeping upstairs, the Captain declared to himself things had never seemed cozier or more to his liking.

" Yes, I'm an old army man," the honest Captain was saying as he refilled his guest's plate and politely recom mended the sauce. " But since I retired I like my own quiet way here better than the bustle of a big town or the bother of society. I haven't a relative I know of in the world, and my friends are the best sort imaginable. They are very few in number, and they never bother me with invitations I don't cai-T for, or come to see me un less they are asked. I tell you, sir, I'm we'll off." Mr. Roslyn smiled. "An ideal life for a man with your tastes! By jove, I'm differently situated! Of all men in the world, I am the last to enjoy responsibility; and — what do you sup pose I am hampered with?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, bringing the tips of his slim, handsome fingers together, and smiling above them into the honest, kindly face of his entertainer.

" A ward, sir; a girl of twenty; the daughter of an old friend, and who is to be one of the richest women in America!" " Great Scott !" ejaculated Captain Westover. " And that poor fellow upstairs— imbecile — without a friend in the world but me — without a penny but what I can give him. It's a queer dispensation of Providence, but I don't see my way out of shouldering both of them." " But your ward. Who " " She is the daughter of the late Colonel Cleve," Mr. Roslyn interrupted. " Cleve and I were college friends, and Well, I chanced once to be of service to him — lost sight of him for years — and, lo and behold! he re wards my nearly forgotten kindness in this way! Only a month ago I received a letter from him announcing his return to America after ten years' absence, saying his physicians gave him no hope of living out the year, and asking me to come East at once and arrange to undertake the care of his daughter when he was gone!

Poor soul! Two weeks later he was dead, and now the lawyers and executors are waiting for me. But for my poor friend's illness and dependence upon me I should have been at Brockton a week ago." " How singular!" answered the Captain, and he added, with a shake of his head: "I declare the world beyond my little stone house here is full of events, sure enough! Well, I can't say that I envy you. My life suits me best. You are taking your friend where, did you say?" Mr. Roslyn explained that the unfortunate sufferer was to be placed under excellent care at Harrowfield, not far from Albany. "No asylum is perfect," he said, with his pleasant smile; "but this one bears an excellent reputation." Three hours later Captain Westover, smoking his last pipe alone by the parlor fire, realized to what he had pledged himself, and he wondered how it had possibly come about.

He had agreed to keep the invalid for a week as his guest ; although Mr. Roslyn insisted upon leaving two hundred dollars as a fund for emer gencies — to care for him, and to make the needful arrangements for his removal to Beckley the follow ing week, when Mr. Roslyn was to return and con vey the sick man thither. Naturally a long confab had preceded this decision and many details been discussed; but, if the truth were known, a certain scientific curiosity had been his real influence. He had the interest of an expert in brain diseases in questions of the kind, and he decided that while giving his patient every care he would make a careful study of the very singular case which, so far as he was able, Mr. Roslyn had diagnosed for him. "After all, it is a rare chance for me," was the Cap tain's final reflection.

"And in case of emergency I can always send for Dr. Slocum. No harm can come of it." And this honest amateur in diseases of the brain went softly up the narrow staircase leading past his guests' door to his own. A light shone beneath the latter, and the Captain, pausing an instant, detected the scratching of a pen on paper. For, in fact, having accomplished his purpose, Mr. Paul Roslyn had to make haste with certain correspondence. " There seems to be no loop-hole for discovery," he was writing midway in a letter, while the Captain, full of scientific projects, was preparing for bed, "and I look forward to ease and independence. I shall be at Brockton to-morrow night. Will write you an account of my ward and your chances for comfort as her duenna. Meanwhile do not answer this. I want no postmarks scrutinized."

Having concluded his letterwriting, Mr. Paul Roslyn walked over to the bed and gazed a long time down into the face of the sleeping man — a face still handsome; in slumber full of a refined spirituality, but prematurely old and worn by sufferings more mental than physical. What passed in the mind of the watcher, who could tell? "Poor devil!" he said, half audibly, and returned to his station near the fire. An hour later, although the storm still raged as wildly as ever, all was silent in the Cap tain's stone cottage. November 13, 188-, had come to an end — that date never to be forgotten by two of the inmates of the quiet house.

Chapter II

I BEGIN LIFE FOR MYSELF. JANUARY 16th — a date long to be remembered as an epoch in my life! To how many women has it happened, I wonder, to find themselves suddenly — and at the mature age of twenty-six— placed in an altogether unexpected position as regards life, the world, themselves, their precedents, traditions and natural bent — and this just by the coming of one visitor, and the only one of which in this life we can be sure? — that grim guest whose footsteps ought to be an echo from our very cradles? But mother and I had led so quiet, so uneventful, so serene a life that I never dreaded anything — even her death; and when, after a brief illness, she left me, utter bewilderment, for a time, even absorbed my grief. Then came this swift facing of life's realities. Her little income, on which she and I had lived modestly but in sufficient comfort, had died with her, and the shock which had killed her had been learning of her lawyer's crime toward her and other clients.

All her savings — those carefully-hoarded sums laid by against the evil hour when I should be left alone— had been swept away by Mr. Roche— "invested," he called it; stolen and lost, we knew— and my poor little mother, never very strong, sunk under the blow, and after a three-days' illness died in my arms-begging ,„e "to forgive her "-poor darling! — and leaving me one sacred injunction, which was to seek out an old friend of hers in New York, ask her advice, and claim her friendship and protection. Alas! alas! Heaven knows, on this drear January morning I felt that I needed both sadly enough, al though the law}Ter whom my mother had employed to try and recover something from Mr. Roche's executors — the wretched man had died by his own hand when his defalcations were discovered — had taken a deep interest in me and promised to "look up " something for me to do; but since coming to New York from our little coun try home, two weeks before, I had learned how full the great city was of women placed in one way like myself; and, as I have said, it was not alone my orphaned con dition that I deplored, but the fact of my total inex perience of life and the world — of the elements of success or those creating failure.

Hallidon, wdiere mother and I had passed twenty years, might have been Sidney's Arcadia for all the knowledge of " this wicked world " which it bestowed. We never thought of tumult, or evil, or worldly strifes and motives. We were all in all to each other. We had our garden and our books, and, above all, our music. My mother loved music and study passionately, and the amusement as well as the duty of her life had been to instruct me; so that, friendless though I might be, my education was not only solid, but my accomplishments were equal to those of many girls who have seemingly had wider advantages. I could play well, and I had a fairly good and a thoroughly well-trained voice. I could read and write and speak French and German as well as my mother-tongue. With these advantages, Mr. Farqu har, the lawyer I have referred to, had assured me I ought to be able to earn my livelihood, and accordingly promised, as I have said, to assist me in procuring em ployment.

The friend to whom my mother had so sacredly com mended me was not in New York, I found. I had called at her house to learn this fact; but at any hour, the very obliging man-servant informed me, she might be expected to return; therefore, would I call again? But, somehow, the air of quiet but perfect luxury — the elegance — of this Mrs. Elder's house on Washington Square had depressed me. I felt it unnatural to suppose the mistress of such a dwelling could have any thing in common with myself, and with the first touch of false pride or cynicism I had ever experienced I turned away, after a second fruitless call, determined not to venture again, but to write her a note, which I had done on reaching my lodging — a brief little letter, stating, as my mother had bidden me, that I was " Syl via Bartlett's " daughter, and was alone in the world.

No answer had as yet reached me, but from the lawyer, Mr. Farquhar, had come a note — a brief summons to his house, where he was laid up with a sprained ankle, but where he would like to see me " on business " this morning. I had a room in a nice, quiet house over a shop, which he had recommended. My landlady was one of his clients — a thoroughly respectable woman who, with her son and daughter, carried on a stationery and book busi ness, thriving in its small way, and t-h ing '. hem r,o cozy a home that I quite envied them, and felt as though I would exchange some of what Mr. Farquhar called my "advantages" for their simple content and sufficient prosperity. As I passed out on this morning I stopped at the sitting-room back of the store to leave my room key with Mrs. Atley, but finding her engaged with a customer, was about to lay it on the table and go on, when the sound of my name struck upon my ear and I stood still.

" Yes, sir," Mrs. Atley was saying, "the young lady's name is Roberts — it might be the very same." A glance through the half-open door into the store revealed to me Mrs. Atley's customer. A slim young man, smooth-shaven, and quite good-looking; dressed rather sprucely and with an air of fashion, although even to my country eyes no elegance about him. A perfect stranger to me; of this I was quite sure. The next moment Mrs. Atley, hearing me, I suppose, caught my eye." "Oh, Miss Roberts!" she exclaimed; and then, turning back to the young gentleman, continued: " There's the young lady herself, sir." Upon this I came in, more surprised than embar rassed, and yet, somehow, feeling not quite at my ease. Never did a pair of eyes scrutinize me more critically than the bright black orbs of this young man.

I felt morally certain he could have told any one ten minutes later every yard of material in my plain black gown, every inch of crape on my small bonnet, upon which I wore no vail. " I was looking for Miss Jane Roberts," he said politely. "My name is Sylvia," was my rather curt answer. I felt myself blushing like a fool in spite of my efforts at self-possession. So critical was his gaze that I wondered if he were itemizing me a la Olivia — height, somewhat above medium; hair, light brown; eyes, dark gray; nose, straight; mouth, rather large; teeth, good; chin, dimpled; complexion, jiale. Such were the items which made up my rather commonplace appearance; and if to these he chose to add a furious blush mounting high in both cheeks and the simplest of mourning garbs, this stranger could sum up easily the result of his inves tigations.

" Then I fear," said he, withdrawing his gaze with a somewhat reluctant manner and smiling upon Mrs. Atley, "it can't be the same person — ahem — young lady. Very sorry, I am sure, to have given you so much trouble. 67oosZ-morning!" And with a polite bow, which carelessly included us both, he took his departure. " He came in here looking for a Miss Roberts — said the postman told him you were here," said Mrs. Atley as soon as were alone. " He had a package from her aunt in Boston." " Well, I haven't any aunt in Boston or anywhere," I said, laughing a little, and with a certain tingling still in my cheeks. "And his Miss Roberts' first name was Jane." I explained my errand to Mrs. Atley, told her where to find the key, and smiling, as she wished me "success," passed out on to Fourth Avenue, thence across Madison Square, and to the quiet street on which Mr. Farquhar lived.

It was strange, absorbed though I might be in the thought of my interview with Mr. Far quhar, I could not shake off the curious impression pro duced by that singular young man's gaze. There had been nothing rude in it— of that I was absolutely, in stinctively sure; but the fact that some special interest — not a merely personal one — lurked in it was the point which perplexed me and kept it in my mind. He had not a particularly open face. Frank as was his manner, there was something very reticent, to say the least, in his expression. I continued to wonder about this trifling oc currence while I rang Mr. Farquhar's bell, and before it was answered I chanced to look down at the corner of the street, when behold! there stood my young man again — not, however, looking at me, this time, but mak ing with all the energy of which his slim young frame was capable in the direction of a street-car, which I pre sume he reached; but before such a result of his frantic endeavors, Mr. Farquhar's door had opened and I was being ushered upstairs into the lawyer's sanctum — a large, richly, heavily-furnished library, in which, near to a glowing coal-fire, sat Mr. Farquhar, a man young in years for the fame he had attained in his profession, and with one of those clear, clean-cut faces which people tell us are Saxon, and wdiich yet seem to me as often found among thoroughbred Americans.