Victor's Triumph Part 2

With a smile and a bow, and with a warm expression of thanks, the young man accepted the offered hospitality.

And when the party entered their carriages to return to Blue Cliffs, Craven Kyte, mounted on a fine horse, attended them.

But, mind, he did not ride beside the carriage that contained the three young ladies, but beside the gig occupied by Mary Grey and Dr. Jones.

And the very first inquiry he made of Emma, on reaching the house, was:

"Is the Reverend Doctor Jones a married man?"

"Why, what a question!" exclaimed Emma, laughing. "No, he is not a married man; he is a widower. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know. But I thought he was a widower. He seems very much taken with Mrs. Grey," sighed the young man.

"Oh, is that it?" laughed Emma, as she ran away to take off her bonnet and mantle.

And that Easter Sunday Mary Grey found herself again in a dilemma between her two proposed victims--the gray-haired clergyman and the raven-locked youth.

But she managed them both with so much adroitness that at the close of the day, when Craven Kyte was riding slowly back to Wendover, he was saying to himself:

"She is fond of me, after all; the beauty, the darling, the angel! Oh, that such a perfect creature should be fond of me! I am at this moment the very happiest man on earth!"

And later the same night, when the Rev. Dr. Jones laid his woolen night-capped head upon his pillow, instead of going to sleep as the old gentleman should have done, he lay awake and communed with himself as follows:

"Poor child--poor child! A mere baby. And she _is_ penitent; sincerely penitent. Oh, I can see that! And to think that she is not nearly so much in fault as we believed her to be! She tells me that she really was married to that man--married when she was a child only fourteen years of age. So her gravest error was in running away to be married! And that was the fault of the man who stole her, rather than of herself. And she is as repentant for that fault as if it were some great crime. And oh, how she has suffered! What she has gone through for one so young! And she has such a tender, affectionate, clinging nature! Ah, what will become of her, poor child--poor child! She ought to have some one to take care of her. She ought indeed to be married, for no one but a tender husband could take care of such a pretty, delicate, helpless creature. She ought to marry some one much older than herself. Not a green, beardless boy like that young puppy--Heaven forgive me!--I mean that young man Kyte. He couldn't appreciate her, couldn't be a guide or a guard to her. And she really needs guiding and guarding too. For see how easily she falls into error. She ought to marry some good, wise, elderly man, who could be her guide, philosopher and friend as well as husband."

And so murmuring to himself he fell asleep to dream that he himself was the model guide, philosopher and friend required by the young widow.

CHAPTER III.

A GROWL FROM UNCLE JACKY.

The next day, Easter Monday, brought a messenger from Lytton Lodge; a messenger who was no other than Mithridates, commonly called "Taters,"

once a servant of Frederick Fanning, the landlord of White Perch Point, but now a hired hand of John Lytton's.

Mithridates, or Taters, rode an infirm-looking old draft horse, with a dilapidated saddle and bridle, and wore a hat and coat exceedingly shabby for a gentleman's servant.

He also led a second horse, furnished with a side-saddle.

He dismounted at the carriage-steps, tied the horses to a tree, and boldly went to the front door and knocked.

Jerome opened it, and administered a sharp rebuke to the messenger for presuming to knock at the visitors' door instead of at the servants'.

"If I'd a come to the servants' I'd rapped at the servants' door; but as I have comed to the white folks' I rap at dere door. Here; I've fotch a letter from Ma.r.s.e Jacky Lytton to his niece, Miss Lorrer," said Taters, pompously.

"Give it to me then, and I'll take it in to her," said Jerome.

"Set you up with it! I must 'liver of this here letter with my own hands inter her own hands," said Taters, stoutly.

"Well, come along, for a fool! You're a purty looking objick to denounce into the parlor, a'n't you now?" said Jerome, leading the way.

At that moment, unseen by Jerome, but distinctly seen by Taters, a face appeared at the head of the stairs for an instant, but meeting the eye of Taters turned white as death and vanished.

Taters uttered a terrible cry and sank, ashen pale and quaking with horror, at the foot of the steps.

"Why, what in the name of the old boy is the matter with you, man? Have you trod on a nail or piece of gla.s.s, or anything that has gone through your foot, or what is it?" demanded Jerome, in astonishment.

"Oh, no, no, no! it's worse'n that--it's worse'n that! It's no end worse'n that! Oh, Lor'! oh, Lor'! oh, Lor'!" cried Taters, holding his knees and sawing backward and forward in an agony of horror.

"Ef you don't stop that howlin' and tell me what's the matter of you I'm blessed ef I don't get a bucket of ice water and heave it all over you to fetch you to your senses!" exclaimed the exasperated Jerome.

"Oh, Lor', don't! Oh, please don't! I s.h.i.+ll die quick enough now without that!" cried Taters, writhing horribly.

"What's the matter, you born iddiwut?" roared Jerome, in a fury.

"Oh, I've seen a sperrit--I've seen a sperrit! I've seen the sperrit of my young mistress! And it's a token of my death!" wailed the negro boy in agony.

"What's that you say--a sperrit? A sperrit in this yer 'spectable, 'sponsible house? Lookee here, n.i.g.g.e.r: mind what you say now, or it'll be the wus for you! A sperrit in this yer ginteel family as never had a crime or a ghost inter it! The Cavendishers nebber 'mits no crimes when der living, nor likewise don't walk about ondecent after der dead. And der a'n't no sperrits here," said Jerome, with ire.

"Oh, I wish it wasn't--I wish it wasn't! But it was a sperrit! And it's a token of my death--it's a token of my death!" howled Taters.

And now at last the noise brought the three young ladies out of the drawing-room.

"What is the matter here, Jerome?" inquired Mrs. Cavendish. "Has any one got hurt? Who is that man?"

"Ef you please, Miss Emma, no one a'n't got hurt, though you might a thought, from the squalling, that there was a dozen pigs a killin'. And that man, miss, is a born iddiwut, so he is--begging your pardon, miss!--and says he's seed a sperrit in this yer harristocraterick house, where there never was a sperrit yet," explained Jerome, with a grieved and indignant look.

"But who is the man? What is he doing here? And what does he want?"

inquired the young lady.

"The man is a born iddiwut, Miss Emma, as I telled you before; that's who the man he is! And he's a making of a 'fernal fool of hisself; that's what he's doing here! And he deserves a good hiding; and that's what he wants!" said Jerome, irately.

Miss Cavendish pa.s.sed by the privileged old family servant, and went up to the man himself and inquired:

"Who are you, boy? What brings you here? And what ails you?"

"Oh, miss! I'm Taters, I am. And I come to fetch a letter from Ma.r.s.e Jacky Lytton to Miss Lorrer. And I seen a sperrit at the top o'them stair steps. And that's what's the matter of me," cried the boy.

"A spirit! Jerome, do you think he's been drinking?" inquired the young lady in a low, frightened voice.

For an answer Jerome, without the least hesitation, seized Taters by the head, pulled open his jaws, and stuck his own nose into the cavity and took an audible snuff. Then, releasing the head, he answered:

"No, miss, he a'n't been drinking nuffin. His breff's as sweet as a milch cow's. I reckon he must be subjick to epperliptic fits, miss, by the way he fell down here all of a suddint, crying out as he'd seen a sperrit."

"You said you had a letter, boy. Where is it?" inquired Emma.