A master of the inner court

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You see, Mr. Bonnycastic, we are not at all anxious to marry.” — Page 59.

A MASTER

OF THE

INNER COURT

By

MARY POLK WINN

Author **Law and the Letter” and Short Stories.

Copyright, 1915 By

MARY POLK WINN

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Chapter I

The light from the leaping fire flickered over the beautiful room, where quiet brooded. On the hearth rug before the fire lay a child, asleep, and in a lounging chair close by, with her bit of needlework even now slipping from her relaxing hand. Marjorie Wyngate sat, in drowsy yielding to the atmosphere of luxurious comfort and warmth about her.

But hardly had she dropped asleep before she awoke with a strangled cry, and stared wildly about her, hardly recognizing in her terrors the familiar objects about her. The fire, still leaping and falling in the great fireplace, cast its ever-varying yet accustomed glow over her, over her boy still sleeping on the floor at her feet. It was all as it had been a few moments before, and yet nothing seemed real about her but the terror of her vision that even yet was passing vividly before her waking eyes.

In her dream she had seen three figures, two men and a dog, upon a bridge which spanned a deep but narrow ravine. One of these men, their faces she could not see, stumbled and fell. As he struggled to his feet, the other man, the taller of the two, pushed the man who had fallen from the bridge into the seething water below. This tragedy, enacted before her eyes in a vision, Marjorie knew to be, in some way, of vital interest to herself, and her horror was so great that she was unable either to move or speak. Cold beads of perspiration stood upon her brow, her hands were clammy, she shivered as if from cold. Gradually, as her terror was allayed, she laughed at her fears, and bending down pressed her cheek close to that of her sleeping child.

Rand was a beautiful boy. He lay as he had fallen asleep while at play, his head resting on his arm, showing a rosy cheek swept by dark curling lashes. His lips still held their babyish curve, and as he slept they parted in a smile.

Attempting to forget her vision, Marjorie smiled back. Of what did he dream? Of some childish game? Rand always played with all his heart. To-morrow his father would return to them, and they would all be happy together again. Wyngate had been called away to a city in the East on some family business matters, and now that they had been satisfactory arranged he expected to return at once. Glancing round at her books and pictures, her husband’s desk, her boy’s treasures scattered about the room, Marjorie could hardly realize that she had spent five years in this happy home. There had been but one cloud.

Her husband, Laurence Wyngate, was an only child. His father had died a short time before their marriage, but Marjorie had expected from his mother a daughter’s welcome. Mrs. Wyngate, however, never recognized her son’s marriage by so much as a line to either of them, and although Laurence had resented his mother’s silence, he seemed to be unable to discuss it. Realizing that from cause obscure to herself, her husband’s mother had not approved of his choice, Marjorie, too, had rarely alluded to her.

With a sigh, she dismissed the subject from her mind, and after giving her boy his simple supper and his bedtime story, tucked him away for the night in his little white bed near her own. Then an almost unprecedented experience in her happy and tranquil life, through the long hours of the night she lay awake. Finally she rose, and walking to a window, drew back the curtain.

Over the sleeping city the dawn lay brooding. From the sky the stars had faded, and a deep line of orange light in the East was paling into gold. In a house across the street she saw a servant turning out the lights ; the hoofs of the horses in an icewagon struck sharply against the cobble stones of the frozen street. She could almost discern the bare trees and gray outline of the statuary in a little park where she often took Rand to play; she recalled with amusement a statute of Minerva which had been struck by a mammoth fire cracker at a patriotic celebration. Rand in a trembling voice had called out to a burly policeman: “Come quick, Mr. Officer! A skyrocket has hit Miss Minerva!” Still gazing out she saw a newsboy running to keep warm as he delivered the morning papers along his route.

The new day dispelled Marjorie’s nervousness, and with a lighter heart she ran down to the door for the morning paper. A messenger boy crossed the street. He was coming toward her. With hands that trembled Marjorie took the telegram from him, and read: “Lawerence Wyngate was killed last evening in an accident while on a hunting excursion/'

Signed: 'T. Talbert."

For a moment she stood quite still, unable to collect her thoughts, and then, the telegram falling from her hand, she lost consciousness.

Chapter II

In a small town the principal hostelry is always a center of social life. This is the starting point from which the stage carries passengers to and from the daily trains, and, if from its cumbrous depths a stranger steps, this is the sensation of the day. Even the loafers who sit with chairs tilted against the wall, in the office, or about the open doors, straighten up with sudden alacrity, and take the newcomer in with speculative interest.

On the afternoon of which I write, in a Southern village, suspended above the open door of the principal hotel, a sign bearing the imposing inscription, ‘*The Washington Hotel,” waved slowly in a gentle breeze.

The stage had just come in, and while several people on the sidewalk stopped to look on with open mouthed interest, the fat clerk ran down the hotel steps with unusual alacrity to assist three passengers from the stage.

One was a young woman dressed in deep mourning, with a veil drawn over her face. She was followed by an old negress who held a little boy closely by the hand.

“Such a pity house! Is this where Gen. George Washington lived?” the little boy asked, fastening innocent eyes upon the newly painted sign of the Washington Hotel.

The young woman, drawing back her veil smiled. It was the first time that Marjorie Wyngate had smiled in many months. Not since the terrible day that had brought the news of her husband’s sudden death. The weeks that followed would always be a blank to Marjorie, for the shock, following so soon her strange vision, had caused a long illness.

When at last she was well enough to take up life again, she had been given a letter from a lawyer representing the Wyngate family in the East, informing her that her husband’s death had been caused by an accident, while on a hunting trip in the Adirondack Mountains. That as he had been ciossing over a narrow bridge that spanned a mountain stream, in the darkness he had stumbled and fallen. “F. Talbert,” his hunting companion and friend of Oxford days, had summoned help but her husbands’ body had been washed swiftly away in the swollen stream, and never recovered.

This Mr. Talbert, she was told, had been most kind and after doing all in his power in regard to his friend, had departed for Havre to meet the elder Mrs. Wyngate in Paris, and give her the particulars of the tragedy. With this letter couched in the cold term of legal particularity, there had been another, a letter from the senior Mrs. Wyngate’s lawyer sent from her home in Paris, directing her American lawyer to pay her daughter-in-law for her son’s child a monthly allowance.

This allowance had continued for several months, and then with no reason assigned, had been discontinued.

This meant to Marjorie the difference between poverty and comparative comfort, and while undecided what she should do, a letter came to her that stirred her from the sorrowful present into memories of her childhood.

This letter was from Mrs. Clay, who had been a neighbor and an intimate friend of her mother’s. She wrote urging Marjorie to come with Rand and Mammy and make her a long visit. With Mrs. Clay’s cordial invitation she inclosed a newspaper clipping that interested Marjorie very much. It was to the effect that a certain Madame d’Holbret wished to secure a young woman of suitable attainments to act as her secretary.

If she was not mistaken, this Madame d’Holbret was the person who, by paying off a small mortgage, had bought in the "‘Shelter,” her Grandmother’s old home. Remembering it, the Southern fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle was wafted by to Marjorie. She saw an old fashioned garden, with trim walks bordered with box, and a rose-covered arbor where her grandmother entertained the country elite. Among them she remembered Mr. Robin Bonnycastle, the most charming man she had ever met! She had no time now, however, to pursue this train of thought. Marjorie was consumed with a desire to once again be in her old home, to take her child there. Without delay she wrote accepting Mrs. Clay’s invitation, and at the same time sent a letter to Madame d’Holbret applying for the position of secretary.

Very soon the reply came that Madame d’Holbret would like to see Mrs. Wyngate in person before arriving at any definite decision. Not many days later, with Rand and Mammy, an old negress who had been in the family for several generations and was now Rand’s nurse, Marjorie started on her journey. On arriving at her destination she decided to go first to the little hostelry in the village, and after sending a message to notify Mrs. Clay of her arrival, she now sat awaiting her old friencL

On hearing an exclamation from Rand, Marjorie looked up, and saw a tall woman advancing toward her with outstretched arms. Mrs. Clay gave Marjorie a motherly embrace, and then drawing about her ample skirts, she drew Rand into her arms.

‘'My dear Marjorie, how glad I am to welcome you back to your childhood’s home. You should have come at once to me. Mr. Clay wishes me to say for him also that you are to consider our house your home.”

“Tut, tut, my dear!” Mrs. Clay said, as Rand put up his little brown hand, and patting his mother on the cheek, wiped a tear from her eyes. “Can not a friendship that has endured through many generations give one a right to give and receive such proof? Besides, can we forget that four generations ago the intermarriages between our families began, when one of your ancestors, a Randolph, married a Kentucky Semple? This of course makes us relations.”

“Dat is ’zackly what I been sayin’ all de time, Miss.” exclaimed Mammy, taking advantage of her age and long service. “All folks that is folks am kin folks.”

Mrs. Clay turned upon Mammy an approving smile.

“What a darling Rand is!” she said, giving the little boy in her arms a covert hug, while Rand, opening his blue eyes, regarded her with interest. “He is well grown, too, brown and hearty, which is certainly astonishing when you remember, poor lamb, that he has never spent a day in his life out of a city.”

“I hoped that Appolina would come with you,” Marjorie said, smiling with pleasure at Mrs. Clay’s enthusiasm over Rand.

**Appolina is not at home/^ Mrs. Clay replied, her face suddenly grave. ‘*She went up to the city to a ‘Tango Tea.* I saw a picture of the dancing.” Mrs. Clay cast her eyes at the ceiling and shuddered. “When I remonstrated with Appolina, however, she replied: ‘My dear mother, modesty was once quite a fad, it is now out of fashion. Some day it may come back again.* **

“I see that Appolina is as spoiled as ever,** Marjorie replied with an amused smile. “You say that dear Mr. Clay is as well as usual, and still studying American History? Now do tell me something of Mr. Bonnycastle and of Decimus Clay.**

“Decimus is on his plantation, and still faithful to his early love.** Mrs. Clay regarded Marjorie for a moment with a rather quizzical expression, “My brother, Robin Bonnycastle, is well and as you remember, the most charming of men. He rarely leaves ‘Robin*s Roost,* and yet,** Mrs. Clay lowered her voice, “he is often absent for days.**

In response to Marjorie*s look of bewilderment, Mrs. Clay only leaned over and kissed her, “And now I wish you to tell me something of youself.** “There is very little to tell that I have not written you,** Marjorie replied simply, “I now await a notification from Madame d’Holbret as to what time she wishes me to call, she may then arrive at some decision in regard to my becoming her secretary. d’Holbret is the name of the party who, by paying up a small mortgage, bought in my old home. I was not even notified of the transaction. Do you know anything of Madame d’Holbret?** “Madame d’Holbret has lived abroad, and is quite like a foreigner,” Mrs. Clay replied, impressively. “I am told that she is very reserved, but Dr. Pell, our new physician, an inquisitive little man, had the temerity to call upon her. She gave him to understand that she is an American and descended from one of the early settlers of New York. Many of the descendants of these same Dutch tradesmen have made the largest fortunes our country can boast. Since her arrival, Madame d’Holbret has left the place but once when she went in a closed carriage to the village, and was closeted with lawyer Jasper. That is not all, my dear, her second husband is a French nobleman, so that she is a Baroness. Of course people will gossip.”

As Mrs. Clay finished speaking she rose to her feet, and having warmly embraced Marjorie and Rand, she glanced about the room at their din^ surroundings with evident disapprobation. will not leave here,” she said, “until you promise not to spend another hour beneath this roof. I shall send over at once for your belongings.” Having complied with this request, Marjorie stood for some time at the window watching Mrs. Clay’s tall figure as it gradually disappeared down the village street.

Chapter III

Long French windows opened from the "‘Shelter'' upon a broad terrace, and from this one passed through the rose covered arbor into a garden that at some time long past had been laid out by a landscape gardener.

Now the borders of box were no longer kept trimly clipped, and in the beds the flowers grew together in tangled masses of brilliant color. Near the center of the garden water trickled slowly from the mouth of a time worn gargoyle into a stone basin, and not far off the shadow finger of a sundial pointed toward noon. Before the windows opening out upon the terrace, however, the heavy green blinds were still closely drawn.

Madame d’Holbret, fatigued by the incidents of the day before, had not risen as early as was her wont. In her pleasant bedroom overlooking the garden, she lay in a massive bedstead canopied with silk so startlingly new, in contrast with the ancient piece of furniture, that it gave it the aspect of a stately old aristocrat attired in the flashy garb of a parvenu.

On a table by her bedside lay a long slender cane and near her hand there was a silver bell.

Madame d'Holbret felt that she should rise, but was reluctant to make the effort; she began to fear that the Southern climate, sought by her for her health, might prove enervating. She had been somewhat of an invalid for several years, and had just returned from a three months' course of treatment for rheumatism at a neighboring Springs. Most of the work of renovating this old place had stopped short, awaiting her return, and there was plenty to fill her days for a long time to come, but her invalidism made her sink back again into her pillows, and she glanced appraisingly about the room which, except for its new silk draperies, was as it had been when she had bought in the estate. Evidently the old lady to whom the home had belonged before its forced sale to cover a small mortgage, had been a person of means and luxurious tastes. Very likely, she had been a proud descendant of one of those Virginia cavaliers, brave and gallant gentlemen, who, when not fighting for their country or their honor (they were certainly most punctilious in this respect) had spent their substance on good living, horse races and the fighting of gamecocks. Her own ancestors had been good Dutch tradesmen, early settlers of Manhattan, who had left to their descendants habits of industry and thrift, as well as the golden fruits of these virtues. At present, Madame d’Holbret found the luxurious tastes of her predecessor convenient ! The coverlet that, although it was quite warm, she now drew up over her feet, was made of eiderdown, the sheets were of linen and the furniture massive and handsome. And all bought in for a mere song!

None knew better than she the curiosity of the countryside over her and her household, over the new owner of “The Shelter.” Dr. PelFs naive interest, lawyer Jaspers’ ill-concealed pryings, did not fill her with resentment at all, but she left all their yearnings for information unsatisfied.

The smile that showed itself on Madame d’Holbret’s face at this thought was followed by a faint laugh, loud enough, it may have been, to be heard on the outside of the door, for immediately there was a knock, and a faded looking lady projecting her body partly into the room, timidly inquired if Madame had called? Receiving an imperious answer in the negative, the head was quickly withdrawn and the door closed softly.

The expression of the mistress of The Shelter had changed to one of slight annoyance. The interruption had reminded her of a Mrs. Wyngate who had replied to her advertisement for a private secretary. It seemed that this Mrs. Wyngate had arrived in the village and that she was staying somewhere near with one of her friends. She had been notified that she could call at 11 o’clock, but Madame d’Holbret was very comfortable, and she still felt loathe to rise.

Someone who had seen Mrs. Wyngate spoke of her as being attractive, with a personality that might become a presumption in a paid attendant. This was an objection, besides she had a child. Madame d’Holbret had caught a glimpse of the little boy as he ran laughing past her window, and he reminded her of — of a child she remembered in the past ! This resemblance might be imaginary, however, the name a coincidence. The Baroness’ black brows met in a heavy frown, and then with closed introspective eyes, she lay back among her pillows. The matter must be settled, however, before the arrival of her husband, the Baron; nothing should annoy him. Answering this thought, she arose and touched sharply a silver bell.

In the meantime, Marjorie, who had received a stiff note from Madame d’Holbret making an appointment for her to call, now stood ringing, rather timidly, the doorbell of her old home. It seemed almost past comprehension that here in this home that had sheltered her childhood, that she should now await the convenience of a stranger ; and when a maid informed her that Madame d'Holbret had not yet arisen, but would be glad to see her later, it was with a sense of relief that she hurried from the door.

Walking to the side of the house, she followed a winding path that led into the grove, and here she took her seat beneath the hanging boughs of a huge oak that she remembered as one of her early friends. With closed eyes, Marjorie lay back her head against the bole of the great tree. She felt strangely bewildered. To adjust one's self to new conditions, when the old have become a part of one's soul ,is one of life's most difficult lessons, and while Marjorie had girded up her strength so that she felt ready now to take upon herself the unaccustomed burden of economic independence for Rand and herself, for the first time she found herself questioning fate.

Gradually, however, the scene about her brought her peace. Through her half-closed lids she could see on one side the white colonial house of the Clays, on the other, the dense grove of trees that hid from sight “Robin's Roost," the home of Mr. Robin Bonnycastle. Near by, through the trees, rose the tall red chimneys, sloping roof, and broad veranda of “The Shelter." Above her a boisterous woodpecker drilled in his insatiated desire for sap, and a little higher up a bright-eyed squirrel peeped out from its hiding place.

Rand had walked over with her, but “Uncle Henry," her grandmother's old gardener, black as the soil to which he had been faithful, and now in the employ of Madame d'Holbret, had enticed him off into the garden.

Marjorie^s heavy heart grew light, and her face radiant, for across the sunlit lawn she now saw Rand running toward her. In his hand he held a paper box and his blue eyes were gleaming with delight. “Four frogs. Mama! Uncle Henry says they ran so fast that he is sure they are all little boys, and I brought them to you for your birthday.”

Laughing, Marjorie drew Rand nearer to her, and then to show due appreciation of his gift, she looked into the box from which four green frogs stared miserably back at her from the loophole of this prison.

“What makes them have such hoarse voices?” Rand asked suddenly.

“Don't you remember the frog who would a- wooing go, whether his mother would or no?” Marjorie replied. “Probably he was punished for his disobedience by taking cold and ever since frogs have had to croak! Generations ago a Grandmother or a Grandfather frog was taken from its green home in a branch by a little boy like you. He put it into a box, and it was so astonished to find itself there that its eyes popped. Since then pop-eyes have belonged to the frog family and are now regarded as marks of beauty.”

Rand looked thoughtful. “But these frogs did not come from a branch,” he objected, “they were under a tree.”

“Very likely; then, Rand, the frog family is a very old one, and all the little frogs who are too proud or too lazy to work spend their time beneath its branches.”

“Mr. Clay has a family tree, I saw it in the library,” Rand replied, with childish astuteness.

As they discussed the frogs, they could see Uncle

Henry working in the garden, and faintly catch the words of the hymn that he sang. All about them were stillness, and shadows, and sweet odors.

“Do you see the Lord walking with Uncle Henry, he says he walked with the Lord,'' Rand said, sleepily, and then, his head against his mother's shoulder, his long lashes resting upon his flushed cheeks, he lay apparently asleep, when suddenly rubbing his eyes, he sat up.

From the house there was coming toward them a lady. She was very fragile looking, and in her faintly tinted summer gown, she seemed almost to form a part of the landscape. As she drew near, and her figure took definite shape against the bole of the tree, Marjorie remembered that she had seen her passing, and that Mrs. Clay had said that she was a relation and companion of Madame d'HoL bret, and that she was called “Miss Araminta."

When Miss Araminta drew near she stopped for a minute and regarded Marjorie and Rand as if she were slightly agitated, and then she took Marjorie's hand with a deprecating smile.

“Madame d'Holbret asked me to say to you that she would be pleasfed to see you at once. Would you object to going back to the house alone, and allow me to stay here with Rand for a little while?" she asked timidly.

Marjorie noticed how sweet Miss Araminta's voice was, and as Rand held out his hand and made a place for her by his side, she hurried off, feeling sure that Miss Araminta was a very nice person. For children and animals have instinct, while we poor grown-ups have only a weak and frequently mistaken reasoning power that leads us into many erroneous opinions in regard to our fellow beings.

Chapter IV

Marjorie found Madame d’Holbret in a room overlooking the terrace that brought back many recollections of her childhood. The great teester bedstead in the corner, with steps to mount up to the feather bed, she felt sure were the identical pair she had climbed upon as a child to nibble off bits of wax from the taper that had invariably stood by her grandmother’s bedside. Through the open windows came the fragrance from arbors of roses and beds of old-fashioned flowers.

Seated in a large chair, with her head turned from the door, Madame d’Holbret’s proud and handsome profile was sharply defined against the light. A huge dog, so like a wolf that Marjorie was startled, lay near her feet.

She made no movement as Marjorie came into the room, but with an almost imperceptible nod indicated a chair near the window. Then, as if actuated by some disturbing thought, she grasped a cane that lay near her hand, and sharply tapped upon the bare oaken floor.

The dog opened his eyes with a growl, and turning to quiet him, Madame d’Holbret showed that only one side of her face was handsome; the other high cheek bone was disfigured by a scar, which took the form of the imprint of a hand. It gave a sinister expression to her face, and her care in arranging her position showed that it caused her some chagrin.

For a moment she sat silently contemplating

Marjorie with an air of hauteur which changed to a keen scrutiny. She looked as if she were appraising her possible employee from every point of view, in order to make up her mind once for all how valuable this young woman's services would be to her. Marjorie gazed steadily back at her, with the feeling that much might depend upon the first impression, trying to keep in mind that Rand’s comfort was being weighed in the balance.

'‘Marjorie Wyngate, you say, is your name?” she asked coldly.

Marjorie flushed before she could answer. Madam d’Holbret interposed.

"It is necessary to guard against imposters, and your name interests me slightly. Have you a relative of a similar name who married a Wyngate?”

"Not that I know of, but, curiously enough, in our old home I read in the newspaper of a Mrs. Wyngate who had died, and thought it a coincidence that we should have the same name, or one so similar, for I am under the impression that her name was Margaret. She and her little son were the victims of an epidemic of diphtheria.”

The Baroness leaned her gray head back against her chair, an expression, almost of relief, passing over her face.

"The name Margaret must have been used for Marjorie,” she said reflectively.

Marjorie looked at her with some surprise, as she made what to her seemed an irrelevant remark.

"Since you are here I will see if you are capable of filling the position of secretary,” Madam d’Holbret continued, but the boy, what will you do with him?”

"I thought you understood, when I replied to your letter, that I will never be separated from my boy.”

Unconsciously, Marjorie drew herself up as she spoke.

|‘You can come over to-morrow,” the Baroness said hurriedly, with a curt nod of dismissal, while a wonderful transformation passed over the face that had before regarded Marjorie so narrowly. The eyes that were small, and near together, lighted up now with eager expectation, seeming to grow larger and farther apart. She had risen from her chair, and stood smoothing down the folds of her silk neglige, while footsteps in the hall drew nearer. Mar j oriels attention was attracted, however, by another sound. The dog had risen on his haunches, his gums drawn back showed long white fangs, and his bloodshot eyes were fixed upon the doorway, where, turning, she saw that the portiere was drawn gently aside, and a gentleman stood within the doorway.

He was young, very foreign, distinguished looking.

The dog and the man regarded each other for a moment, the dog still showing his teeth, and then, with his face transformed by a charming smile, the stranger stepped swiftly across the floor.

“It seems that my son's dog, sent me after his death, bears you some grudge, Francis!'^ the Baroness said, smiling, an apology in her tone.

Drawing slowly together the portieres, made of some beautiful East Indian fabric, as she left the room, Marjorie looked back to see that the young man had placed his arm familiarly about the elderly woman’s waist, and then, wondering, she hurried down the steps.

Mrs. Clay had walked over to join Marjorie, and

A MASTER OP THE INNER COURT she now stood awaiting her in the hall, looking about her with naive curiosity and some disdain at the various changes made in the old house.

Marjorie drew her into the long salon parlor that she remembered never to have entered in her childhood without some degree of awe.