T HE village lay farther up on the hill. Oliver and his companion followed the road, looking about them enquiringly.
"Suppose you find this man, what will you do?" asked Oliver curiously.
He had an idea that Nicholas Bundy might pull out a revolver and lay his old enemy dead at his feet. This, in a law-abiding community, might entail uncomfortable consequences, and he might be deprived of his new friend almost as soon as the friendship had begun.
"I will punish him," said Nicholas, his brow contracting into a frown.
"You won't shoot him?"
"No. I shall bide my time, and consider how best to ruin him. If he is rich, I will strip him of his wealth; if he is respected and honored, I will bring a stain upon his name. I will do for him what he has done for me."
The provincialisms which at times disfigured his speech were dropped as he spoke of his enemy, and his face grew hard and his expression unrelenting.
"How he must hate this man!" thought Oliver.
They stepped into a grocery store on the way, and here Mr. Bundy enquired for Rupert Jones.
"Do you know any such man?" he asked.
"Oh, yes; he trades here."
Nicholas Bundy's face lighted up with joy.
"Is he a friend of yours?"
"No," he replied hastily. "But I want to see him; that is, if he is the man I mean. Will you describe him?"
The grocer paused, and then said:
"Well, he is about thirty-five years old, and——"
"Only thirty-five?" repeated Nicholas in deep disappointment.
"I don't think he can be any more. He has a young wife."
"Is he tall or short?"
"Quite tall."
"Then it is not the man I mean," said Bundy. "Oliver, come."
As they left the store he said:
"I thought it was too good news to be true. I must search for him longer; but I have nothing else to do. There are many Joneses in the world."
"Yes, but Rupert Jones is not a common name," said Oliver.
"You say right, boy, Rupert is not a common name. That is what encourages me. Well, shall we go back?"
"I think as we are over here we may as well stay a while," said Oliver. "The day is pleasant and we can look upon it as an excursion."
"Just as you say, Oliver. There is no more to be done to-day. Have you never been here before?"
"No."
"I used to come over when I was a clerk. I often engaged a boat at the Battery and rowed down here myself."
"That must have been pleasant."
"If you like rowing we can go back to the ferry pier and engage a boat for an hour."
"I should like that very much."
"I shall like it also. It is long since I did anything at rowing."
They engaged a stout row-boat, and rowed out half a mile from shore. Oliver knew something about rowing, as there was a pond in his native village, where he had obtained some practice, generally with Frank Dudley. What was his surprise when bending over the oar to hear his name called. Looking up, he recognized Frank and Carrie Dudley and their father.
"Why, it's Oliver!" exclaimed Frank joyfully. "Where have you come from, Oliver?"
"From the shore."
"I mean, how do you happen to be here?"
"Only an excursion, Frank. What brings you here? And Carrie, too. I hope you are well, Carrie."
"All the better for meeting you, Oliver," said Carrie, smiling and blushing. "I have been missing you very much."
Oliver was pleased to hear this. What boy would not be pleased to hear such a confession from the lips of a pretty girl?
"I thought Roland would make up for my absence," he said slyly. "He told me when we met the other day what pleasant calls he had at your house."
"The pleasure is all on his side, then," said Carrie, tossing her head. "I hate the sight of him."
"Poor Roland! He is to be pitied!"
"You needn't pity him, Oliver," said Frank. "He loses no opportunity of trying to set us against you. But he hasn't succeeded yet."
"And he won't!" chimed in Carrie, with emphasis.
This conversation scarcely occupied a minute, though it may seem longer. Meanwhile Dr. Dudley and Nicholas Bundy were left out of the conversation. Oliver remembered this, and introduced them."Dr. Dudley," he said, "permit me to introduce my friend, Mr. Bundy."
"I am glad to make the acquaintance of any friend of yours, Oliver. We are just going in. Won't you and Mr. Bundy join us at dinner in the hotel?"
Nicholas Bundy did not in general take kindly to new friends, but he saw that Oliver wished the invitation to be accepted, and he assented with a good grace. The boat was turned, and they were soon on land again.
"Who is this man, Oliver?" asked Frank in a low tone.
"He is a new acquaintance, but he has been very kind to me, and I have needed friends."
"Is it true that your step-father has cast you off? Roland has been spreading that report."
"It is true enough."
"What an outrage!" exclaimed Frank indignantly. "But, at least, he makes you an allowance out of your mother's property?"
"He sent me twenty dollars, and let me understand that I was to expect no more of him."
"What an old rascal!"
"I hate him!" said Carrie. "I would like to pull his hair."
"That's a regular girl's wish," said Frank, laughing. "Perhaps you can make it do by pulling Roland's, sis."
"I will, when he next says anything against Oliver."
"Look here, Oliver," said Frank, lowering his voice, "if you are in want of money, I've got five dollars at home that I can let you have as well as not. I'll send it in a letter."
"I've got three dollars, Oliver," said Carrie eagerly. "You'll take that, too, won't you?"
Oliver was moved by these offers.
"You are true friends, both of you," he said; "but I have been lucky, and I shall not need to accept your kindness just yet. I have nearly a hundred dollars in my pocket-book, and Mr. Bundy is paying me ten dollars a week for going around with him. But, though I don't need it, I thank you all the same."
"He looks rough," said Carrie, stealing a look at the tall, slouching figure walking beside her father; "but if he is kind, I shall like him."
"He has done more than I have yet told you. He has promised to provide for me as long as I will stay with him."
"He's a good man," said Carrie impulsively. "I'm going to thank him."
She went up to Nicholas Bundy and took his rough hand in hers.
"Mr. Bundy," she said, "Oliver tells me you have been very kind to him. I want to thank you for it."
"My little lady," said Nicholas, surprised and pleased, "if I'd been kind, that would pay me; but I've only been kind to myself. I'm alone in the world. I've got no wife nor child, nor a single relation, but I've got enough to keep two on, and as long as Oliver will stay with me he shall want for nothing. He's company to me, and that's what I need."
"I wish you were his step-father instead of Mr. Kenyon."
"What sort of a man is Mr. Kenyon?" asked Nicholas of Dr. Dudley.
"He is a very unprincipled schemer, in my opinion," was the reply. "He has managed to defraud Oliver of his mother's property and cast him penniless on the world."
"He is a scoundrel, no doubt; but I am not sorry for what he has done," replied Mr. Bundy. "But for him I should be a solitary man. Now I have a young friend to keep me company. Let the boy's inheritance go? I will provide for him!"
They dined together, and then Dr. Dudley and his family were obliged to return.
"Shall I give your love to Roland?" asked Frank.
"I think you had better keep it yourself, Frank," and Oliver pressed his hand warmly. "You needn't tell Roland that I am prospering, nor his father, either. I prefer, at present, that they should not know it."
They parted, with mutual promises to write at regular intervals.
N ICHOLAS BUNDY was disappointed by his first failure, but by no means discouraged.
"There are many Joneses in the world," he said, "but Rupert is an uncommon name. I didn't think there'd be more than one with that handle to his name. If he's alive I'll find him."
"Why don't you enquire of somebody that knew him?" asked Oliver.
"The thing is to find such a one," said Bundy. "There's been many changes in twenty years."
"Don't you know of some tradesman that he used to patronize, Mr. Bundy?"
"The very thing!" exclaimed the miner, for so I shall sometimes designate Mr. Bundy. "There's one man that may tell me about him."
"Who is that?"
"He kept a drinking-place down near Fulton Ferry. He may be living yet. I'll go and see him."
So one morning Nicholas Bundy, accompanied by Oliver, took the Third Avenue cars and went downtown. They got out near the Astor House, and made their way to the old place, which Bundy remembered well. To his great joy he found it—a little shabbier, a little dirtier, but in other respects the same.
They entered. Behind the bar stood a man of nearly sixty, whose bloated figure and dull red face indicated that he appreciated what he sold to others.
"What will you have, gentlemen?" he asked briskly.
Nicholas Bundy surveyed his countenance attentively.
"Are you Jacob Spratt?" he asked.
"Yes," answered the bartender. "Do you know me?"
"I knew you twenty years ago," answered the miner.
"I don't remember you."
"You once knew me well."
"I have seen many faces in my time. I can't remember so many years back."
"Do you recall the name of Nicholas Bundy?"
"Ay, that I do. You used to come here with a man named Jones."
"Yes—Rupert Jones. Can you tell me where he is now?"
Jacob shook his head.
"He left New York not long after you did," he answered. "He went to Chicago."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Yes, and I'll tell you why. He came here one evening and says: 'Jacob, I'm going away. You won't see me for a long time—I'm going to Chicago.'"
"Did he tell you why he was going there?"
"He said he was going there as an agent for a New York house—that he had a good chance."
"You have never seen him since?"
"No," said Jacob. Then he added meditatively: "Once I thought I saw him. There was a man I met in the street looking as like him as two peas, makin' allowance for the years he was older. I went up to him and called him by name, but he colored up and looked annoyed, and told me I was quite mistaken; that his name wasn't Jones, but something else—I don't remember what now. Of course I axed his pardon and walked on, but he was the very picture of Rupert Jones."
"Then you feel sure that he went to Chicago?"
"Yes, he told me so, and that was the last time I saw him. If he had stayed in the city he would have kept on comin' to my place, or I should have met him somewhere."
Nicholas Bundy thanked the old man for his information, and ordered glasses of lemonade for himself and Oliver.
"Won't you have something stronger, Mr. Bundy?" asked the barkeeper insinuatingly.
Bundy shook his head.
"I've given up liquor," he said. "I'm better off without it, and so will the boy be. What do you say, Oliver?"
"I agree with you, sir," said Oliver promptly.
"Lucky for me all don't think so," said Spratt. "It 'ould ruin my business."
When they left the bar-room Nicholas Bundy turned to his young companion.
"Oliver," he said, "will you go with me to Chicago?"
"I shall be glad to go," said Oliver promptly.
"Then we will start in two or three days, as soon as I have made some business arrangements."
"Mr. Bundy," said Oliver honestly, "it will cost you considerable to pay my expenses. I should like very much to go, but do you think it will pay you to take me?"
"You're considerate, boy, but don't trouble yourself about that. You are company to me, and I'm willing to pay your expenses for that, let alone the help you may give me."
"Thank you, Mr. Bundy. Then I will say no more. What day do you think you will start?"
"To-day is Tuesday. We will start on Saturday. Can you be ready?"
Oliver laughed.
"There won't be much getting ready for me," he said. "All my business arrangements can be made in half an hour."
Bundy smiled. Our hero's good spirits seemed to enliven his own. He was not only getting used to Oliver's company, but sincerely attached to him.
N ICHOLAS BUNDY went downtown the next morning. Contrary to his usual custom, he did not invite Oliver to accompany him.
"Perhaps you have some places to visit," he said. "If so, take the day to yourself. I shall not need you."
He proceeded to the office of a well-known broker in the vicinity of Wall Street, and, entering, looked around him. His rusty appearance did not promise a profitable customer, and he had to wait some time before any attention was paid him. Finally a young clerk came to him and enquired carelessly:
"Can we do anything for you this morning?"
"Are you one of the proprietors?" asked Nicholas.
"No," answered the young man, smiling.
"I should like to see your employer, then."
"I can attend to any little commission you may have," said the young man pertly.
"Who told you my commission was a little one, young man?"
"It seems large to him, I suppose," thought the clerk, again smiling. "If it's only a few hundred dollars——" he commenced.
"I want to consult your employer about the investment of fifty thousand dollars in gold," said Nicholas deliberately.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir," said the young man, his manner entirely altered. "I will speak to Mr. Hamlin at once."
Though the broker was engaged with another person he waited upon Nicholas without delay, inviting him to take a seat in his private office.
"Are you desirous of obtaining large interest, Mr. Bundy?" he asked.
"No, sir; I want something solid, that won't fly away. I've worked for my money and don't want to lose it."
"Precisely. Then I can recommend you nothing better than Government bonds. They pay a fair interest and the security is unquestionable."
"Government bonds will suit me," said the miner. "You may buy them."
The purchase was made and Nicholas enquired:
"What shall I do with them? I don't want to carry them around with me. Is there any place of safety where I can leave them while I am absent on a journey?"
"Yes, sir; you want to place them with a safe deposit company. I will give you a note to one that I can recommend."
This advice seemed good to Mr. Bundy. He presented himself at the office of the company and deposited the bonds, receiving a suitable certificate.
"One thing more," he said to himself, "and my arrangements will be made."
He visited the office of a lawyer and dictated his will. It was very brief, scarcely ten lines in length. This also he deposited with the safe deposit company.
"Oliver," he said, in the evening, "I've got through my business sooner than I expected. Can you start to-morrow?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then we'll go. We'll pay our landlady to the end of the month, so that she can't complain. One thing more, Oliver, I want to tell you. I've left the bulk of my property, in bonds, and my will with the Safe Deposit Company, No. —— Broadway. If anything happens to me you are to go there and call for the will. Whatever there is in it I want you to see carried out."
"All right, sir."
The next day they started for Chicago.
J UST before leaving New York Oliver wrote a letter to Frank Dudley, announcing the plan he had in view.
My new guardian, Mr. Bundy, goes to Chicago on business [he wrote] and I am to go with him. I don't know how long we shall be away. I shall be well provided for, and expect to have a good time. I may write you from the West. Remember me to Carrie, and believe me to be your affectionate friend,
Oliver Conrad.
"So Oliver is going to Chicago," said Frank Dudley to Roland Kenyon, on the afternoon of the same day.
Roland looked surprised.
"How do you know?" he asked.
Frank showed him the passage quoted above.
"He doesn't send his love to you," said Frank mischievously.
"I don't care for his love," returned Roland, tossing his head. "I'm glad he is going to a distance."
"Why?"
"So he needn't disgrace the family."
"Are you really afraid of that?" asked Frank, in rather a sarcastic tone.
"Yes; he's a bad fellow, and you'll find it out sooner or later."
"I don't agree with you; I think Oliver a fine, manly fellow."
"Oh, I know you have always stuck up for him!" said Roland, annoyed. "You are deceived—that is all."
"Carrie is deceived, too, then," said Frank, knowing that this would tease Roland. "She has just as high an opinion of Oliver as I have."
"She'll find him out sometime," said Roland, and walked moodily away.
Reaching home, he told his father the news.
"Oliver gone to Chicago!" repeated Mr. Kenyon, with evident pleasure. "I am glad of it. I hope he'll never come back to annoy us."
"I hope so, too."
"But I am afraid he will get out of money and write for help."
"He's found some flat who has taken a fancy to him, and is paying his expenses. Very likely he'll get tired of him, though."
"Who is it?" asked Mr. Kenyon, with some curiosity.
"It's a rough sort of a man. Frank Dudley met him one day at Staten Island. An old miner from California, I believe, named Bundy."
"What!" exclaimed his father hastily and in visible agitation. "What is the man's name?"
"Bundy."
"What is his first name?"
"Nicholas, I believe."
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Mr. Kenyon, moved in some unaccountable manner. "How strange the boy should have fallen in with him!"
"Why, do you know him, father?" asked Roland, whose turn it was now to be surprised.
"I have heard of him," answered Mr. Kenyon, in an embarrassed voice; "not lately—years ago."
"What sort of a man is he?" asked Roland, who was endowed with a full share of curiosity.
"His character was bad," answered his father briefly. "He was discharged from his place for dishonesty. I knew very little of him."
"Then he's good company for Oliver," said Roland, shrugging his shoulders. "They are well matched. I'll tell Frank Dudley what sort of a guardian his dear friend has chosen."
"I desire you will do nothing of the kind," said his father hastily.
"Why not?" asked Roland, in surprise.
"I don't care to have it known that I ever heard of the man. Frank Dudley might write to Oliver what I have said, and then it would get to the ears of this man Bundy. I have nothing against him, remember. In fact I am grateful to him for taking the boy off my hands. If we are wise, we shall say nothing to separate them."
"I see," said Roland. "I guess you're right, father. I'd like to tell Frank, but I won't."
"How strange things turn out in this world!" said Kenyon to himself, when Roland had left him. "Of all men in the world Oliver has drifted into the care of the man who hates me most. It is fortunate that I have changed my name. He will never suspect that the step-father of the boy he is befriending is the man he once knew as—Rupert Jones."
M EANWHILE, in her Southern prison-house, Mrs. Kenyon languished in hopeless captivity. There was only one thing to add to her unhappiness, and that was supplied by the cruel ingenuity of her unprincipled husband.
Tell her [wrote Mr. Kenyon to Dr. Fox] that her son Oliver is dead. He has just died of typhoid fever, after a week's illness. We did all we could to save him, but the disease obtained too great headway to be resisted, and he finally succumbed to it.
"If she's not insane already that may make her so," he said to himself cunningly. "I shall not tell even Dr. Fox that the story is false. If he believes it he will be the more likely to persuade her of it."
Dr. Fox did believe it. Had it been an invention he supposed Mr. Kenyon would have taken him into his confidence. So he made haste to impart the news to his patient. Essentially a coarse-minded man, he was not withheld, as many would have been, by a feeling of pity or consideration, but imparted it abruptly.
"I've got bad news for you, Mrs. Kenyon," he said, entering the room where she was confined.
"What is it?" she asked quickly.
"Your son Oliver is dead!"
She uttered one cry of deep suffering, then fixed her eyes upon the doctor's face.
"You say this to torment me," she said. "It is not true."
"On my honor, it is true," he answered; and he believed what he said.
"When did you learn it? Tell me all you know, in Heaven's name! Would you drive me mad?"
Dr. Fox shrugged his shoulders.
"I only got the letter this morning," he said. "It was from Mr. Kenyon."
"May I see the letter?"
Reflecting that it contained nothing of a private nature, Dr. Fox consented, and put the letter into her hands. It carried conviction to the grief-stricken woman.
"I have nothing to live for now," she said mournfully. "My poor Oliver! So young to die!"
"Who's dead?" enquired Cleopatra, advancing to where they stood.
"My boy Oliver."
"Is that all? I thought it might be Mark Antony. Dr. Fox, have you received a letter from Antony lately?"
"No, your Majesty. If I had I would immediately have informed you."
The effect of this news was, for a time, to plunge Mrs. Kenyon into a fit of despondency. Freedom no longer had for her the old attractions. What was life to her now that her boy was dead?
Mr. Kenyon heard with pleasure of the effect produced by his cruel message.
"Why don't she die, or grow mad?" he said to himself. "I shall never feel safe while she is still alive. What would the world say if it should discover that my wife is not dead, but confined in a mad-house?"
Still, he felt moderately secure. All his plans thus far had succeeded. He had won the hand of a wealthy widow, he had put her out of the way; he had cast off her son, appropriated her property, and there seemed to lie before him years of luxury and self-indulgence.
In the midst of this pleasant day-dream there came a rude awakening.
One day, as he was sitting in dressing-gown and slippers, complacently scanning a schedule of bonds and bank shares, a servant entered.
"Please, sir; here's a telegram. Will you sign the book? The boy is waiting."
He took the book and signed it calmly. He was expecting a telegram from his broker, and this was doubtless the message looked for.
He tore open the envelope and read:
Your wife has escaped. We have no clue yet to her whereabouts.
Fox.
He turned actually livid.
"What's the matter, sir?" asked the servant, alarmed by his appearance. "Is it bad news?"
He had his wits about him, and realized the importance of assigning a reason for his emotion.
"Yes, Betty, I have lost five thousand dollars!"
"Shure the master must care a sight about his money!" thought Betty. "He looked just like a ghost."
Mr. Kenyon sent a message to Dr. Fox, exhorting him to spare no pains to capture the fugitive. Not content with this, he followed the telegram, taking the next train southward.
M RS. KENYON'S depression and apparent submission to her fate had relaxed the vigilance of her keepers. Still, it is doubtful if she would have escaped but for the help of her insane room-mate.
Late one evening Cleopatra, with a cunning expression, showed her a key.
"Do you know what this is?" she asked.
"It is a key."
"It is the key of this door."
"How did you get it?"
Upon this point the queen would give no information. But she lowered her voice and whispered:
"Mark Antony is waiting for me outside. He is going to carry me away."
It was useless to question her delusion, and Mrs. Kenyon contented herself with asking:
"Do you mean to leave this house?"
"Yes," said Cleopatra. "Antony expects me. Will you go with me? I will make you one of my maids of honor."
"Do you think we can get out?" asked Mrs. Kenyon dubiously. "The outer door is locked."
"I know where to find the key. Time presses. Will you go?"
Believing in the death of her son, Mrs. Kenyon had supposed herself indifferent to liberty, but now that the hope of escape was presented a wild desire to throw off the shackles of confinement came to her. What her future life might be she did not care to ask; but once to breathe the free air, a free woman, excited and exhilarated her.
"Yes; I will go," she said quickly. "Come!"
The two women dressed themselves hurriedly, softly they opened the door of their room, went downstairs, and from under the mat in the unlighted hall Cleopatra stooped down and drew out the key of the outer door.
"See!" she said exultantly.
"Quick! Open the door!" exclaimed Mrs. Kenyon nervously.
The key turned in the lock with a grating sound which she feared might lead to discovery, but fortunately it did not. A moment and they stood on the outside of their prison-house.
Now Mrs. Kenyon assumed the lead.
"Come," she said.
"Do you know where to find Mark Antony?" asked Cleopatra.
"Yes; follow me."
They did not venture to take the highway. The chances of discovery were too great. Neither knew much about the country, but Mrs. Kenyon remembered that a colored woman, sometimes employed at the asylum, lived in a lonely hut a mile back from the road. This woman—old Nancy—she had specially employed by permission of Dr. Fox, and to her hut she resolved to go.
Cleopatra, no longer self-reliant, followed her confidingly. Just on the verge of a wood, with no other dwelling near at hand, dwelt the old black woman. It was a rude cabin, dark and unpainted. Cleopatra looked doubtfully at it.
"Where are you going?" she asked, standing still. "Antony is not here."
It was not a time to reason, nor was the assumed queen a person to reason with. There was no choice but to be positive and peremptory.
"No," she answered, "Antony is not here, but here he will meet you. It is a poor place, but his enemies lie in wait for him, and he wishes to see you in secret."
This explanation suited Cleopatra's humor.
She nodded her head in a satisfied way and said:
"I know it. Augustus would murder my Antony if he could."
"Then you must not expose him to danger. Come with me."
Mrs. Kenyon advanced, not without some misgivings, since Nancy was unaware of her visit. She could hear the old woman snoring, and was compelled to knock loudly. At last old Nancy heard, and awoke in a great fright.
"Who's there?" she called out, in a quavering voice.
"It's I, Nancy. It's Mrs. Kenyon."
This only seemed to alarm the old woman the more. She was superstitious, like most of her race, and straightway fancied that it was some evil spirit who had assumed Mrs. Kenyon's voice.
"Go away, you debbil!" she answered, in tremulous accents. "I know you. You's an evil sperrit. Go away, and leave old Nancy alone."
Had her situation been less critical, Mrs. Kenyon would have been amused at the old woman's alarm, but in the dead of night, a fugitive from the confinement of a mad-house, she was in no mood for amusement.
"Don't be frightened, Nancy," she said, "I have escaped from the asylum with Cleopatra, and we want you to hide us for to-night. I will give you ten dollars if you will open your door and help us."
Now, avarice was a besetting weakness in old Nancy's character, and though Mrs. Kenyon did not know it, she had unwittingly made the right appeal to the old woman. Ten dollars was an immense sum to Nancy, who counted her savings by the smallest sums. She drew back the bolt, and opened her door, not wholly without fear that her first suspicions might be correct, and her nocturnal visitors turn out to be emissaries of Satan.
"Are you sure you aint bad sperrits?" she asked, through a narrow crevice.
"Don't be foolish, Nancy. You know me well enough, and Cleopatra, too. Open the door wider, and let us in."
Reassured in a degree by the testimony of her eyes, Nancy complied and the two entered.
"Laws, missus, it's you shure nuff," she said, "and Clopatry, too." (This was as near as she ever got to the name of the royal Egyptian.) "Who'd a thought to see you this time o' night?"
"We've run away, Nancy. You won't let Dr. Fox know?"
"I reckon not, missus. He's a drefful mean man, the old doctor is. I won't give you up to him nohow."
Luckily for Mrs. Kenyon old Nancy had some months before had a quarrel with Dr. Fox about some money matter in which she felt he had cheated her. So she was glad of this opportunity to do him an ill turn.
"Is Antony here, Nancy?" asked Cleopatra, looking about her with an air of expectation.
Nancy was about to reply in the negative, when she caught a significant look from Mrs. Kenyon, and altered her intended answer.
"He aint here yet, missus, but I expect him in the morning sure."
"Likely he's her man," thought Nancy, who was entirely unacquainted with that episode in Roman history in which Cleopatra figured. "Likely he's her man, though she do look old to have one."
The cabin consisted of one room on the ground floor, but overhead was a loft covered with straw, and used partly as a lumber-room by the old woman. A pallet filled with straw lay in one corner of the lower room, this being old Nancy's bed, from which she had hastily risen when she heard the knocking at the outer door.
"Lie down there, honeys," she said with generous hospitality, proposing to resign her own bed to her unexpected guests.
But the position was too exposed for Mrs. Kenyon.
Looking up she espied the loft and said:
"No, Nancy, we would rather go up there. Then if Dr. Fox comes for us he won't discover us."
To this arrangement both Nancy and Cleopatra assented, and a rude ladder was brought into requisition. When they had reached the loft Cleopatra looked around her with discontent.
"Am I to lie here?" she asked.
"Yes; we will lie down together."
"But this is no fit couch for a great queen," she complained. "What will Mark Antony—what will my courtiers say?"
"They will praise you for sacrificing your royal state for your lover," answered Mrs. Kenyon, who was quick-witted, and readily understood the warped mind she had to deal with.
"Then I will be content," said Cleopatra, evidently pleased with the suggestion, "if you think Antony will approve."
"There is no doubt of it. He will love you better than ever."
Cleopatra reclined upon the straw, and was soon in a profound slumber. Mrs. Kenyon was longer awake. She was anxious and troubled, but at length she, too, yielded to sleep.
She awoke to find old Nancy bending over her.
"Don't be frightened, honey," she said; "but the old doctor is ridin' straight to the door. Don't you move or say a word, and I'll send him off as wise as he came."
Nancy had scarcely got downstairs and drawn the ladder after her, when the smart tap of a riding-whip was heard on the outer door.
Mrs. Kenyon trembled in anxious suspense.
O PENING the outer door, old Nancy counterfeited great surprise at seeing Dr. Fox mounted on horseback, waiting impatiently to have his summons answered.
"Lor' bress us!" she exclaimed, holding up both hands, "what bring you on here so airly, Massa Fox?"
"Nancy, have you seen anything of Mrs. Kenyon and Cleopatra?" asked the doctor abruptly.
"How should I see them?" asked Nancy. "I haven't been to the 'sylum sence las' week."
"They have run away," explained Dr. Fox.
"Run away! Good Lor'! What they gone and run away for?"
"Out of pure cussedness, I expect," returned the doctor in a tone of disgust. "Then you haven't seen them?—they haven't passed this way?"
"Not as I knows on. They wouldn't come to old Nancy. She couldn't help 'em."
"I was hoping you might have seen them," said Dr. Fox, disappointed. "I don't know where to look for them."
"How did they get away?" asked Nancy, fixing her round, bead-like eyes on the doctor, with an appearance of curiosity.
"I can't stop to talk," said Dr. Fox impatiently. "I must search for them, though I don't know where."
"I hope you'll find 'em, Massa Fox," said Nancy, rolling her eyes.
A sudden idea struck Dr. Fox. For a small sum he could enlist Nancy on his side, he thought.
"Look here, Nancy," he said, "these foolish woman may yet come this way. If they do, let me know in some way, so that I can catch them, and I'll give you—let me see—I'll give you five silver dollars."
"Will you really, Massa Fox?" exclaimed Nancy, in affected delight. "Oh, golly, how rich I'll be!"
"Of course you don't get it unless you earn it, Nancy."
"Oh, I'll work for it; I will, sure, Massa Fox."
"If they come here, manage to lock them up in your cabin, and then come to me."
"You may 'pend on me, Massa Doctor. Oh, yes, you may 'pend on me."
"That secures her co-operation," thought the deluded doctor. "Five dollars is a fortune to her."
He would not have felt quite so confident if he had heard Nancy's soliloquy after his departure.
"Mean old hunks!" she exclaimed. "So he thinks he's gwine to buy old Nancy for five dollars! He's mighty mistaken, I reckon, I won't give up the poor darlings for no such money."
No doubt the ten dollars she had received from Mrs. Kenyon had its effect; but, to do old Nancy justice, she had a good heart, and, fond as she was of money, would not have sold the secret of those who put confidence in her, even if there had been no money paid her for keeping it.
Mrs. Kenyon, hidden in the loft, heard the conversation with anxiety, lest Nancy should yield to the temptation and betray her place of concealment. When the colloquy was over, and Dr. Fox had ridden away, she felt relieved.
"Thank you, Nancy," she said gratefully, peering over the edge. "You are indeed a good friend to me."
"I sent Massa Fox off with a flea in his ear," said Nancy, her portly form shaken by a broad laugh.
"I shall not forget your kindness, Nancy.
"Is Clopatry awake?" asked Nancy.
"Yes," said a smothered voice from the straw. "Is Antony come?"
"Aint seen no gemman of that name, Miss Clopatry."
"I hope he hasn't forgotten his appointment," said the queen anxiously.
"What does he look like, in case I see him, Miss Clopatry?"
"He looks like a prince," said Cleopatra. "He has an air of command. He's a general, you know."
"You couldn't tell me what color hair he's got!" said the practical Nancy. "I don't know much about princes."
Cleopatra looked perplexed. She had never thought particularly about the personal appearance of her hero.
"I expect it's black," she said; "but he'll ask for me. You'll know him by that."
"All right, Miss Clopatry. If I see him, I'll send him right along. Now, what'll you have for breakfast?"
"Anything you have, Nancy. We don't want to put you to too much trouble."
"Oh, Lor', Mis' Kenyon, you needn't be afeared. What do you say, now, to some eggs and hoe-cake?"
"I would like some," said Cleopatra, brightening up. "Can I come down, Nancy?"
"Just as you please, Miss Clopatry."
"I think we may venture," said Mrs. Kenyon. "Dr. Fox will not be likely to come back at present."
The two ladies went down the ladder rather awkwardly, not being used to such a staircase. In fact, Cleopatra lost her footing, and fell in a very unqueenly attitude on the earthen floor. She was picked up, however, without having sustained any serious injury.
After breakfast Mrs. Kenyon held a consultation with Nancy as to the course she had better pursue.
"Better stay here till night, Mis' Kenyon," advised the old woman, "and then I'll take you through the woods to Scranton, where the railroad is. Ef you go now, the doctor'll come cross you and take you back."
"Where do the cars go, Nancy? To Charleston?"
"No, Miss Kenyon. They go down souf to Georgia."
Until then Mrs. Kenyon had had no fixed plan, except it had occurred to her that it would be best to go to Charleston. But a moment's reflection satisfied her that she would be more likely to be sought after there than farther south. Dr. Fox would hardly think of following her to Georgia.
"That plan will suit me, Nancy," she said, after a short pause. "I don't much care where I go, as long as I increase the distance between me and that horrible mad-house."
"Will Clopatry go with you?" asked Nancy, indicating the queen with a jerk of her finger.
"I will ask her."
The plan was broached to Cleopatra, but it met with unexpected opposition.
"I can't go away from Antony," she said. "He is to meet me here. You said he was."
This was true, and it was found impossible to remove the impression from her mind.
Mrs. Kenyon looked at Nancy in perplexity.
"What shall we do?" she asked.
"Let her stay," said Nancy. "You can go with me. You aint goin' to be caught so easy if you are alone."
Mrs. Kenyon realized the force of this consideration. Cleopatra was really insane, and her insanity could hardly be concealed from those whom they might encounter in their flight. Dr. Fox would, of course, post notices of their escape, and Cleopatra's appearance and remarks would, in all probability, make the success of their plans very dubious.
"You are right, Nancy," said Mrs. Kenyon; "but it seems selfish to go away and leave Cleopatra here."
"The doctor didn't treat her bad, did he?" asked Nancy in a whisper.
"No."
"Then it won't do her any harm if she does get took back. It's different with you. Jest let her stay here as long as she wants to. When she finds her man don't come, she'll go back likely herself."
This was finally agreed to.
During the day there were no more visitors, much to the relief of Mrs. Kenyon.
At nightfall old Nancy and Mrs. Kenyon set out on their journey. The latter was disguised in an old gown belonging to her hostess, her gown stuffed out to like ample proportions, while a huge bonnet, also belonging to Nancy, effectually concealed her face.
"You look like my sister, Mis' Kenyon," she said. "Lor', I'd never know you!"
"I'll pass for your sister, Nancy, if any enquiry is made."
Nancy nodded acquiescence.
"That'll do," she said, in a satisfied tone. "Now, bid good-by to Miss Clopatry, and we'll go."
Cleopatra was quite willing to be left. She was quite persuaded that Antony would come for her during the evening, and urged Mrs. Kenyon to hurry him in case they met him.
For two miles Nancy and her companion travelled through the woods, until they came to the bank of a river.
"We must go 'cross here, Mis' Kenyon," she said. "There is a boat just here. Get in and I'll row you across."
Mrs. Kenyon got into the boat, and Nancy was about to put off, when a horseman rode up rapidly.
"Halt, there!" he shouted. "Who have you got with you, Nancy?"
Mrs. Kenyon's heart stood still with sickening fear, for the voice was that of Dr. Fox.