A Little Girl of Long Ago, Amanda Minnie Douglas [the kiss of deception read online .txt] 📗

so entertaining did he prove. Then he took them through the old house with its ample hall and spacious rooms on one side. They concluded it must have been able to stand quite a siege, judging from its present solidity. And Mrs. Alden treated them to a pitcher of freshly churned buttermilk, and a slice of excellent rye bread, which they found delightful.

"I shall have to come over again, and get some material for a story," declared Delia, when they were fairly started, tearing themselves away with quite a struggle. "That experience on the 'Slaver' was very graphic."

"If you want to hear something that will make your hair stand on end," said Doctor Joe, "come up and talk to father. When I was a little lad, we had a farm-hand working for us who had gone through with it all, been to Africa for a cargo, and come to the States with what was left of it. He never spoke of it when sober; and though he was in the main steady, once in a while he drank enough to start him going, and he always rehearsed this horrible experience. I remember father used to lock him in the barn to sober up; because he did not want us children to hear the terrible story."

"Were the slaves brought that way?" asked Hanny, with a shudder.

"Most every civilised country condemns that part of the awful practice," answered Ben. "But it is a fact that the native tribes in Africa sell prisoners to one another, or whoever will buy them. Do you suppose Africa will ever be explored?" and Ben looked up at Mr. Whitney.

We did not know much about Africa even then. But Ben was afterward to see the great explorer Stanley, whose journey across that country was a wonderful romance. And although the question of slavery was seething even then, he could not have dreamed, this lovely afternoon when all was at peace, that one day he should be in the thick of the battle himself, with many another brave soul, when his country was nearly rent in twain.

A few lanes led up to places, the outline of streets, and lost themselves in the fields. Cottages had been built to face nearly every way. Here and there was an old colonial house of greater pretensions, some of them at the end of a long driveway lined with stately trees. Here also were the remnants of orchards, meadows where cows were pasturing, thickets of shrubbery with bread-and-butter vine running over them, showing glossy green leaves.

Mr. Whitney paused at a queer, long, one-story house with a high-peaked roof in which were set three small dormer windows. There was a little dooryard in front, a Dutch hall door with an iron knocker, a well near by with the old oaken bucket General Morris had immortalised, and back of the house a picturesque ravine through which ran a clear stream of water that presently found its way out to the Passaic. Willows bent over it, elms and maples stood, tall and handsome, like guardian sentinels.

A little old woman sat sewing by the window.

"We haven't time to stop," said Mr. Whitney. "Hanny, that lady is your hero's grandmother, and the mother of General Watts Kearny. He not only distinguished himself in the Mexican War, but also in the War of 1812. Then he was Governor of Vera Cruz and the City of Mexico."

"And the hero of no end of stories," added Ben. "Jim and I were wild over them a few years ago. Why do people keep saying we have no romance in our own country, because we have no ruined old castles? Why, Mexico itself is a land of historical romance!"

"What a lovely cool dell!" exclaimed Dele. "Just the place to take your book on a hot summer day."

"I believe your young hero Philip was born in New York. But this is the old home, one of the landmarks."

Opposite was a rather pretty place,--a rambling brick house with sharp, pointed roofs, and a long stretch of evergreens. It was beautiful in this soft atmosphere. The birds made a swift dazzle now and then, and filled the air with melody.

"Up here is a hedge of hawthorn that was brought over from England by a Yorkshireman living up above. It is out of bloom now; but another year you can come over early in May and see the 'hawthorn blossoms white' that poets never tire of praising."

Dele broke off a sprig for herself, and one for Hanny. The spaces were larger, the houses farther apart. On the west side was a tree-nursery and garden, and two quaint old frame-houses that hardly looked large enough for any one to live in; but there were children playing about; and on the other side a cemetery. All this tract was known as Mount Pleasant.

At the north of the cemetery, they plunged down a stony way called a road, mostly by courtesy, though it was the only way of getting up from the river. Great trees overhung it on one side, and gave it a weird, darkened aspect.

"It might be a ghost-walk, at night," exclaimed Delia. "Edgar A. Poe could have put a story here. I like the tragic; but I'm not so fond of the horrible."

Another turn showed them the river and the opposite shore crowned with green glittering in the afternoon sunshine. They all paused, it was such a wonderful outlook.

And when they reached it, and glanced up and down, it was a picture indeed. The river made little bends, and wound around tiny points, edged with the greenest of sedge grass in some places, then grey stones with mossy sea-growth, or willows dipping their branches in the lightly ruffled water. Not a soul to be seen anywhere, not a sound save the voices of birds; but while they looked, a flock of geese came floating grandly down.


"On thy fair bosom, silver lake,
The white swan spreads her snowy sail,"


quoted Delia.

"It is not the first time swans have proved geese," said Mr. Theodore, with a smile. "But for the sake of the picturesque we will let it pass."

"I wonder if the Wye or the Severn would be so enchanting to us if poets had not lived there and immortalised them?"

"When we are an old country, we will, no doubt, sigh for relics. In 1666, this was called 'Neworke or Pesayak towne;' and a little more than a hundred years ago this Gully was made the dividing line between the towns. There are many historic spots in Belleville, and an old copper mine that once made a great addition to her prosperity. But my quest ends here. I don't know as I have a hero exactly, Miss Hanny, yet my friend, Frank Forrester, has had a varied and eventful life. This way."

Mr. Whitney led them up a path mostly over-grown with pale, spindling grass that had no chance for sunshine, so close and tall were the trees. It was undeniably gloomy, hidden away here. A little old brown, weather-beaten house hung with vines, that even stretched up into the trees; small, narrow windows, with diamond-shaped panes that could not let in much light, it would seem.

"It's a horrid place," cried Dele. "Hanny, we shall surely see a ghost. The idea of living at the very foot of a burying-ground!"

Hanny held tight to Joe's hand. She was beginning to have what Miss Cynthia called the "creeps."


CHAPTER XIII

OUT-OF-THE-WAY CORNERS

If the outside was gloomy, it had a queer, disorderly, and rather cheerful aspect within, for the sun was pouring a flood of gold in one window where it happened to strike a spot between two trees. And Frank Forrester was by no means melancholy to-day. He shook hands cordially with Mr. Whitney, and welcomed the rest of the party with the utmost affability,--a fine-looking Englishman with a picturesque air, due largely to his rather long hair, which fell about his forehead and neck in a tumbled manner, suggesting a tendency to curls.

"These young people may like to look over my curiosities, while we have our talk," he said. "Take a cigar, and I'll bring a bottle of wine. Won't you join us, Doctor? Here, young folks, are curiosities from everywhere."

He ushered them into a small room that was library and everything by turns. There were trophies of hunting expeditions, some rare birds stuffed and mounted, looking so alive Hanny would not have been surprised if they had suddenly begun to warble; books in every stage of dilapidation, some of them quite rare copies, Ben found; portfolios of old engravings; curious weapons; foreign wraps; Grecian and Turkish bits of pottery; and the odd things we call bric-a-brac nowadays.

Delia began to make some notes. Ben laughed a little. Interviewing was not such a fine art then; and people were considered greater subjects of interest than their belongings. But Delia was saving up things for stories which she meant to write as she found time.

Doctor Joe had come in here with the young people, leaving the two friends to discuss their business. He, too, found much to interest him; and he was amused at Delia's running comments, some of them very bright indeed. She was quite a spur to Ben, he found; and he was surprised at the varied stock of knowledge Ben had accumulated.

It did not seem as if they had explored half, when Mr. Whitney opened the door.

"Young folks, we must be going, if we expect to reach home that very same night, like the old woman with her pig," he said.

"Are you talked out?" asked Delia, archly; "for we haven't half looked through things."

"I want your brother to stay and have some supper with me. I'm my own housekeeper now; but I think we could manage."

"What fun it would be," said Delia. "As there are no stores, we should have to start at the foundation of things."

"I have a loaf of bread, and some cold mutton, and eggs, I think, and tea and coffee. Come, you had better accept my hospitality."

"I must be home in the early evening," remarked Doctor Joe.

"And Hanny's not to stay out after dark," appended Ben.

"We are going down to Cockloft Hall," explained Mr. Whitney. "I am sorry we cannot accept."

"Then you must bring your happy family again. If they are fond of curiosities, the old house could entertain them all day long."

"And if they are fond of adventures, which they are, they might put you to the test," said Delia, daringly.

Herbert laughed at the vivacious tone.

"Then you'd have to find me in the mood. In that respect, I am variable."

"Do you have a mood for each day? Then your friends could be sure--"

"A good idea, like the ladies' reception-days. Must I put on the card, Serious, Jolly, Adventurous, etc.?"

"And supernatural. I should come on the ghost days. For if ever a ghost walked out of its earthy habitation, I should think it would be here. Did you ever see a ghost, Mr. Herbert?"

"I have seen some queer things. But these up here," nodding his head, "seem a very well behaved community. I can't say that they have troubled me; and I've come down the road at twelve or so at night. Perhaps my imagination is not vivid enough in that line. Have you ever seen a ghost, Miss Whitney?"

"No, I have not, except the ghosts of my