Blanchard Amy Ella
Talbot's Angles

After the young men had seen Bertie to her home, they walked down the shadowy street together. "Haven't heard anything of those papers yet, I suppose," Berkley said to his companion.

"Nothing at all."

"Too bad. Are you going to give it up?"

"Not quite yet. I thought I'd allow myself six months. I have a bit of an income which comes in regularly, and one doesn't have to spend much in a place like this. Once my papers are found, I think my chances are good." Then abruptly, "You've known Miss Talbot a long time, I suppose, Matthews."

"Nearly all my life. At least we were youngsters together; but I was at college for some years, and I didn't see her between whiles. She was grown up when I came back."

"Then you probably know all about her home, Talbot's Angles, do they call it?"

"Yes, certainly. Everyone about here knows it, for it is one of the few places that has remained in the family since its first occupation." Then suddenly, "Good heavens, man, you don't mean that's the place you are thinking to claim? I can tell you it's not worth your while. The Talbots have the original land grant and always have had it, and – why, it's an impossibility."

His companion was silent for a moment. "You know, I am not talking yet. If I find the papers are lost irrevocably, I shall go away with only a very pleasant memory of the kindness and hospitality of Sandbridge."

Berkley in turn was silenced, but after parting from his companion at Miss Parthy's door, he went down the street saying to himself, "I'll search that title the very first chance I get. I am as sure as anyone could be that it is all right. Let me see, Miss Ri would know about the forbears; I'll ask her." He stopped under a street lamp and looked at his watch. "It isn't so very late, and she is a regular owl. I'll try it."

Instead of continuing his way to the hotel, he turned the corner which led to Miss Ri's home. Stopping at the gate, he peered in. Yes, there was a light in the sitting-room, and from some unseen window above was reflected a beam upon the surface of the gently-flowing river. "She is up and Linda has gone to her room," he told himself. "Just as I thought."

He stepped quickly inside the ground and went toward the house. One window of the sitting-room was partly open, for the night was mild. He could see Miss Ri sitting by her lamp, a book in her hand. "Miss Ri," he called softly.

She came to the window. "Of all prowling tomcats," she began. "What are you back here for?"

"I forgot something. May I come in?"

"Linda has gone to bed."

"I didn't come to see Linda."

"Oh, you didn't. Well, I'll let you in, but you ought to know better than to come sneaking around a body's garden at this time of night."

"You see, I've gotten into the habit of it," Berkley told her. "I've done it for two nights running and I can't sleep till I've made the rounds."

"Silly!" exclaimed Miss Ri. But she came around to open the door for him. "Now, what is it you want?" she asked. "I've no midnight suppers secreted anywhere."

"Is thy servant a dog, that he comes merely to be fed?"

"I've had my suspicions at times," returned Miss Ri. "Come in, but don't talk loud, so as to waken Linda; the child needs all the sleep she can get. Now, go on; tell me what you want."

"I want you to tell me exactly who Linda's forbears were; that is, on the Talbot side. Her father was James, I know."

"Yes, and his father was Martin. He had a brother, but he died early; there were only the two sons, but there was a daughter, I believe."

"And their father was?"

"Let me see – Monroe? No, Madison; that's it, Madison Talbot, and his father was James again. I can't give you the collaterals so far back."

"Humph! Well, I reckon that will do."

"What in the world are you up to? Are you making a family tree for Linda?"

"No; but I have some curiosity upon the subject of old titles, and as it may come in my way, I thought I would look up Talbot's Angles."

"There's no use in doing that. Linda has the original land grant in her possession. Poor child, she clings to that, and I am glad she can. I wish to goodness you'd marry Grace, Berk Matthews, so Verlinda could get her rights."

"I'd do a good deal for a pretty girl, but I couldn't bring myself up to the scratch of marrying Grace Talbot. Now, if it were Linda herself, that might be a different matter."

"You'd get a treasure," avowed Miss Ri, shaking her head wisely. "She doesn't have to air her family silver in order to make people forget her mistakes in English."

"True, O wisest of women."

"There's another way out of it, Berk; the place reverts to Verlinda in the event of Grace's death."

"Do you mean I shall poison her or use a dagger, Lady Macbeth?"

"You great goose, of course I don't mean either such horrible thing. I was only letting my thoughts run on the possibilities of the case. I'm not quite so degenerate as to wish for anyone's death, but I haven't found out yet why you were looking into the family procession of names."

"Oh, just a mere matter of legal curiosity, as I said. I come across them once in a while, and I wanted to get them straight in my mind. James, son of Martin, son of Madison, son of James; that's it, isn't it?" He checked them off on his fingers.

"That's it."

"Well, good-night, Miss Ri. I won't keep you any longer from that fascinating book at which you've been casting stealthy glances ever since I came in. Don't get up; I can let myself out."

Miss Ri did not immediately return to the book. "Now, what is he driving at?" she said to herself. "It's all poppycock about his interest in the names because he wants to get them straight in his mind. He's not so interested in Verlinda as all that, worse luck. I wish he were." She gave a little sigh and, adjusting her glasses, returned to the page before her.

CHAPTER VIII
A DISCLOSURE

"The old horse is neighing again," said Miss Ri, whimsically, one morning a little later. "I must go to town, Verlinda."

The girl looked up from some papers over which she was working. The two were sitting at the big table before an open fire, for it had suddenly turned colder. The room was very cosey, with warm touches of color found in the table-cover of red, in the yellow chrysanthemums by the window, and in the deep tones of the furniture. Linda looked frailer and thinner than when her life at the farm admitted of more open-air employment and less indoor. She did her work conscientiously, even thankfully, but hardly lovingly, and in consequence it was a constant strain upon her vitality. "What were you saying, Aunt Ri?" she asked, her thoughts vaguely lingering with her work, while yet she was conscious of Miss Ri's remark.

"I said the old horse was neighing again. There is another sale this week, a different express company this time, and I feel the call of the unknown. I think I'll go up by train, and then you will be alone but one night. Bertie enjoyed herself so much last time, that I am sure she will like to come again, if you want her. Bertie is a nice child, not an overstock of brains in some directions, but plenty of hard sense in others."

"Do you suppose it will be cough medicine this time?" asked Linda, making little spirals on the edge of her paper with her pencil.

"Heaven forfend! No, I'm going to bid on the biggest thing there, if it be a hogshead. I saw one man get a stuffed double-headed calf, and another the parts of some machine whose other belonging had evidently gone elsewhere. I shall try to avoid such things. I wish you could go with me, Verlinda; it is such fun." Miss Ri's eyes twinkled, as her hands busied themselves with some knitting she had taken up.

"I'd like to go," admitted Linda wistfully, "but it isn't a holiday, and I mustn't play truant. Good luck to you, Aunt Ri." She returned to her work, while Miss Ri knitted on for a while.

"Shall you be working long?" asked the latter presently. "I must make such an early start, that I think I'll go up, if you will put out the lights and see to the fire."

"I have considerably more to do," Linda answered, turning over her papers. "I'll put out the lights, Aunt Ri."

"Don't sit up too late," charged the other, stuffing her knitting into a gay, flowery bag. "Good-night, child. I'll be off before you are up. Just order anything you like, and don't bother about anything." She dropped a kiss upon the shining dark hair, and went her way, stopping to try the front door.

For half an hour Linda worked steadily, then she stacked her papers with a sigh, arose and drew a chair before the fire, whose charred logs were burning dully. She gave a poke to the smouldering ends, which sent up a spurt of sparks and caused the flame to burn brightly. With chin in hands, the girl sat for some time gazing into the fire which, after this final effort, was fast reducing itself to gray ashes and red embers. The old clock in the hall struck eleven slowly and solemnly. Miss Ri's quick tread on the floor above had ceased long before. The tick-tock of the clock and the crackle of the consuming wood were the only sounds. Linda returned to the table, picked up a bit of paper and began to write, at first rapidly, then with pauses for thought, frequent re-readings and many erasures. She occupied herself thus till the clock again struck deliberately but insistently. Linda lifted her head and counted. "Midnight," she exclaimed, "and I am still up. I wonder if it is worth it." She stopped to read once more the page she had finally written, then, tucking the paper into her blouse, she gathered up the rest, found a candle in one of the dignified old candlesticks, put out the lamp and tip-toed to her room.

The sun was shining brightly on the river when she awakened next morning. Miss Ri had gone long before. Linda had been dimly conscious of her stirring about, but had slept on, realizing vaguely that it was early. Her first movement was to sit up in bed, abstract a paper from under her pillow, and read it over. "I wondered how it would sound by daylight," she said to herself. "I think it isn't so bad, and it was such a joy to do it after those stupid papers. I wonder, I wonder if it is worth while." She tucked the paper away in her desk, feeling more blithe and content than for many a day. How blue the river was, how picturesque the tall-masted ships, how good the tang of the autumn air, laden with the odor of leaf-wine. Even the turkey-buzzards, sailing over the chimney-tops, gave individuality to the scene. It was a beautiful world, even though she must be shut up in a school-room all day with a parcel of restless urchins.

She went down-stairs humming a tune, to the delight of Phebe, who waited below. "Dat soun' lak ole times, honey chile," she said. "I ain't hyar dem little hummy tunes dis long while. I always use say to mahse'f, 'Dar come mah honey chile. I knows her by dat little song o' hers, same as I knows de bees by dere hummin' an' de robin by he whistle.' Come along, chile, fo' yo' breakfus spile." She bustled back to the kitchen, and Linda entered the dining-room, warm from the fire in the wood stove and cheery by reason of the scarlet flowers with which Phebe had adorned the table. There was an odor of freshly-baked bread, of bacon, of coffee.

"I believe I'm hungry," said Linda.

Phebe's face beamed. "Dat soun' lak sumpin," she declared. "Jes' wait till I fetches in dem hot rolls. Dey pipin' hot right out o' de oben. I say hongry," she murmured to herself, as she went clumsily on her errand.

The day went well enough. On her way home from school, Linda stopped to ask Bertie to spend the night with her. But Bertie was off to a birthday dance in the country, which meant she would not be back till the next morning. She was "so sorry." If she had "only known," and all that. "But, of course, you can get someone else," she concluded by saying.

"Oh, I don't mind staying alone, if it comes to that," Linda told her.

"You stay too much alone, Linda."

"And I, who am surrounded all day by such a regiment of boys."

"Oh, they don't count; I mean girls of your own age. How are you getting along, Linda, by the way?"

"Oh, well enough," responded Linda doubtfully. "The more successful I am, the more it takes it out of me, however, and I am afraid I shall really never love teaching. Even though you may succeed in an undertaking, if you don't really love it, you tire more easily than if you did something much harder, but which you really loved."

"I suppose that may be true. Well, Linda, I hope you will not always be a teacher."

"I hope not," responded Linda frankly.

"I wish you would come over oftener, and would go around more with the girls. They would all love to have you."

Linda shook her head gravely. "That is very nice for you to say, but I couldn't do it – yet."

"Well, be sure you don't stay by yourself to-night," Bertie charged her.

Linda promised, and started off to fulfil the intention. Miss Parthy, from her porch, called to her as she went by. "When's Ri coming back?" she asked, over the heads of her three dogs, who occupied the porch with her.

"Not till to-morrow morning."

"You'd better come over here and sleep," Miss Parthy advised her. "I have an extra room, you know."

"And leave dear old Mammy to her lonesome? No, I think I'd better not, Miss Parthy; thank you. I'll get someone to stay."

"You can have one of the dogs," offered Miss Parthy quite seriously. "They are better than any watchman."

Linda thanked her, but the thought of Brownie's tail thumping on the floor outside her door, or of Pickett's sharp bark, or Flora's plaintive whine, decided her. "I think I'd rather have a human girl, thank you, Miss Parthy, and even if I find no one, it will be all right; I have stayed with only Mammy in the house dozens of times."

She continued her way, stopping at the house of this or that friend, but all were bound for the birthday party, and after two or three attempts she gave it up. Rather than put any more of the good-hearted girls to the pain of refusing, she would stay alone. More than one had offered to give up the dance, and this she could not allow another to propose. After all, it would not be bad, though Mammy should drop to sleep early, for there would be the cheerful fire and another bit of paper to cover with the lines which had been haunting her all day. She turned toward home again, with thoughtful tread, traversing the long street between rows of flaming maples or golden gum trees, whose offerings of scarlet and yellow fluttered to her feet at every step. There was the first hint of winter in the air, but the grass was green in the gardens and in the still unfrosted vines birds chattered and scolded, disputing right of way.

At the corner she met Mr. Jeffreys, who joined her. "Bound for a walk?" he asked. "May I go with you?"

As a girl will, who does not despise the society of a companionable man, she tacitly accepted his escort, and they went on down the street toward the river, where the red and yellow of trees appeared to have drifted to the sky, to be reflected in the waters below.

"Miss Talbot," said the young man, when they had wandered to where houses were few and scattered, "I have a confession to make."

Linda looked at him in surprise. He was rather a reticent person, though courteous and not altogether diffident. "To me?" she exclaimed.

"To you first, because – well, I will tell you that I, too, can claim kinship with the Talbot family. My great-grandfather and yours were brothers. Did you ever hear of Lovina Talbot?"

"Why, yes. Let me see; what have I heard? It will come back to me after a while. That branch of the Talbots left here years ago."

"Yes, just after the War of 1812. My great-grandfather, Cyrus, went to Western Pennsylvania. His only daughter, Lovina, was my grandmother. She married against his wishes, and then he married a second time – a Scotch-Irish girl of his neighborhood – and the families seem to have known little of one another after that. My father, Charles Jeffreys, was Lovina's son. He settled in Hartford, Connecticut. And now you have my pedigree."

"Why, then we are really blood relations. No wonder you were interested in the old Talbot place. Why – " she paused, hesitated, flushed up – "then it must be some of the Talbot property you are looking up."

"That is it; but I don't exactly know which it is, and without proof I can make no claim, as I have often said."

Linda ran over in her mind the various pieces of property which she was aware of having belonged to the original grants. "There was a good deal of it," she said. "Some of it was sold before my father's time, and he parted with more, so now all we have is the old homestead farm. I should like to know," she continued musingly, "which place you think it really is. I suppose it must be Timber Neck, for that was the first which passed out of our hands."

"I cannot tell, for I don't know exactly."

"Why didn't you make yourself known before? Didn't you know it would have made a difference to me – to us all, if you belonged, even remotely, to one of the old families?"

"Yes, I did, I suppose; but for that very reason I was slow to confess it. I came here under rather awkward circumstances. For a time I was in a position to be looked upon with suspicion, to be considered a mere adventurer. I may be yet," he continued, with a smile and a side glance at the girl, "even if I do pay my board bills and my laundress."

"Oh, we don't think that of you; we are quite sure you are genuine," Linda hastened to assure him.

"You have only my word. You don't know who my father was."

"You just told me he was Charles Jeffreys."

"Yes, but – " He did not finish the sentence. "I thought it was due you to know something of myself and my errand."

"I am glad to know it."

"Thank you. That is very good of you. Do you mind if I ask that you do not repeat what I have been telling you?"

"Not even to Miss Ri?"

Mr. Jeffreys considered the question. "I think Miss Hill should certainly know, for she was my first friend; and Mr. Matthews, too, perhaps. I will tell them and ask them to respect my secret for the present. When I can come among you as one who has a right to claim ancestry with one of your Eastern Shore families, that will be a different thing."

Linda would like to have asked for more of his personal history and, as if reading her thought, he went on: "I have not had a wildly-adventurous life; it has been respectably commonplace. I had a fair education, partly in Europe; but I am not college-bred. My father was a gentleman, but not over-successful in business. He left only a life insurance for my mother, enough for her needs, if used with care. My mother died two years ago, and I have neither brother nor sister."

Linda's sympathy went out. "Neither have I brother nor sister," she returned softly. "I can understand just how lonely you must be. But you know you have discovered a cousin, and you may consider it a real relationship."

The young man cast her a grateful look. "That makes me feel much less of an alien. I am afraid an outsider would not meet with such graciousness up our way."

"But you must not call me cousin," said Linda, "or we shall have your secret public property, and that will never do." Her sweet eyes were very tenderly bright, and the gentle curve of her lips suggested a smile.

"She is much prettier than I thought," the young man told himself. "She has always looked so pale and unresponsive, I thought she lacked animation; but when one sees – I beg your pardon," he was roused by Linda's speaking. "Oh, yes; it is getting on to supper time, I am afraid. Perhaps we'd better turn back."

They returned by the river walk, parting at Miss Ri's gate. "Good-night, cousin," said Linda, "and good luck to you."

The walk had stirred her blood, the talk had roused a new and romantic interest in her companion, and the same song which Phebe had heard in the morning was on her lips as she entered the house.

Phebe was on the watch for her. "Ain't nobody comin' to eat suppah with yuh?" she inquired.

"No; the girls are all off to a dance in the country. I don't need anyone, Mammy. You and I have been alone many a time before this, and it will seem like old times."

Mammy looked at her critically. "Yuh sholy is beginnin' to git some roses in yo' cheeks," she said. "Whar yuh been?"

"Just around town a little, and then I took a walk by the river."

"By yose'f? Who dat come to de gate wi' yuh?"

"You prying old Mammy. I believe you could see even around the corner. That was Mr. Jeffreys."

"Dat bo'ds wi' Miss Parthy an' feeds de chickens?"

"That is the one."

"Humph!" Mammy's tones expressed contempt. Who was he to be gallanting her young lady around town? But she knew better than to follow up her expressive ejaculation with any spoken comment, and went in without another word.

It was a quiet, cosey evening that Linda spent. It being Friday, there were no lessons to be considered for the morrow, and so she smiled over her own scribbling or smiled into the fire when pleasant thoughts possessed her. At the end of the evening, there was a carefully-copied contribution, which was ready to go to a weekly paper; but so precious was it, that it must not be trusted to remain on the sitting-room table, but must be carried upstairs until, with her own hand, she could take it to the postoffice.

As she went to her window to draw down the shades, a handful of pebbles clicked against the pane. She raised the sash and looked out. "I'm making the rounds," said a voice from below. "Good-night." And through the dimness she saw Wyatt Jeffreys' tall figure tramping around the corner of the house.

"That is nice of him," she said to herself. "Poor fellow, I hope he does recognize that I don't mean to be offish. I am sure he is proving his own cousinly consideration."