Blanchard Amy Ella
Talbot's Angles

"Then I don't see what use it is to anyone. Berk shows that quality in his eyes. He has dear eyes, I think."

Linda neither affirmed nor denied though she suddenly remembered the eager, tender look bestowed upon her that day in the postoffice when she gave back the newspaper after reading her little poem in it. "We certainly have discussed those two long enough," she said lightly. "How their ears must burn. What next, Aunt Ri?"

"I've been thinking I'd like to get some facts for you from some other source than Wyatt Jeffreys. There's our old family lawyer, Judge Goldsborough, who was your family's lawyer as well. He retired from active life long ago, and is a very old man now, but I believe he could tell us things. He knew your grandfather and all that. Some day we will go to see him. We'll make it an ancestral pilgrimage. He lives up in the next county where his son has a fine estate. On the way we can take in that old church where my grandparents were married; they were Roman Catholics, you see, and I have always wanted to see that old church. How do you like the idea of such a trip?"

"Immensely. You are very clever to have thought of it, Aunt Ri."

"Then some Saturday we will go. The judge will be delighted to see you, and me, too, I am not too modest to say. He is a dear old man and, though his memory is not what it was, the way back things are those he remembers the best. Now go to bed. We've talked long enough. Go to bed."

CHAPTER XIII
AN ANCESTRAL PILGRIMAGE

Miss Ri was not one to be dilatory when an idea once took possession of her, and she therefore began planning at once for the trip to "Mary's Delight," where Judge Goldsborough lived. It was a roundabout journey involving several changes, if one went all the way by rail to the nearest station, but was not nearly so far if one drove from Sandbridge to the point where a train could be had which would go direct to the little village of Mackenzie. Miss Ri finally decided upon the latter course, naturally choosing a Saturday as being the day when Linda could most easily leave. It was not a matter to be made secret, and Berkley was consulted as to the best method of getting to the desired point.

"You'd better take the train from Boxford to Mackenzie," he told them. "Of course you must drive from here to Boxford, and you would better send word ahead to Mackenzie to have some sort of vehicle ready for you there to take you to 'Mary's Delight,' unless you prefer to let the Goldsboroughs know you are coming."

Miss Ri shook her head. "I think I'll let that go, and trust to luck, for it might be a bad day which would prevent our going, and I don't want them to make preparations, as they might do; besides we want to stop at the old church, and I should prefer a hired team if we are to do that."

"Very well, then, suppose I drop a line to Mackenzie, to the postmaster there, he knows me, and I'll tell him two ladies are coming from Sandbridge. He will do all he can for you. You can go right to the postoffice, and then it will be plain sailing."

"You are a good thoughtful boy, Berk, to smooth our way so nicely," Miss Ri told him. "By the way," she added, "aren't you feeling well these days? You seem so serious. Anything wrong?"

The young man flushed up and turned over some papers on his desk. They were in his office where Miss Ri had stopped to consult him. "I'm all right," he replied in reply. "Working a little hard, maybe. I must, you know, if I want to get ahead."

"And that is why you don't drop in so often," returned Miss Ri. Then after waiting a moment for the answer which did not come, she went on. "Well, you know you are always welcome, Berk. I may bamboozle you, but you know it is all talk. Come when you can and thank you very much for straightening out this route. I did not want to go around the other way and be all day getting there, spending half the time waiting at stations to make connections."

"I find the most direct way is generally the best," he told her. "When you want to go across country you'd better drive instead of depending upon trains. Good luck to you, Miss Ri." And he turned to his desk as she went out.

Saturday furnished all that anyone could ask in the way of weather. It was almost too warm for the season, and a few clouds piled up in the west, but it could not be a finer day, as everyone declared with satisfaction, and the two travellers sat down to their morning meal in happy anticipation of what was before them.

"We're going to have a lovely time, Verlinda," remarked Miss Ri. "The judge will have some good tales for us, I know. I am sure he will be interested to know you are a great-niece of the Verlinda Talbot he used to know, and, if report speaks the truth, with whom he was much in love, but like the gallant gentleman he was, when she married someone else he made no sign though he was hard hit, and he was always a devoted friend to her and to your grandfather. His son Dick isn't unlike him. He has a nice wife and half a dozen children, some of whom are grown up by now." She was silent for a little while and then she said, with half a laugh and half a sigh, "I didn't expect to be visiting Dick Goldsborough's house in my old age."

Linda looked up from the coffee she was sipping. "That sounds very much as if there were a story, a romance hidden in your remark."

Miss Ri gave a little comfortable laugh. "Well, there was something like it once."

"Oh, Aunt Ri, and you never told me. Were you – were you engaged to Mr. Dick Goldsborough?"

"No-o. You see there were two of us, Julia Emory and I, and it seemed hard for him to make up his mind which he liked best – but finally – he did."

"Oh, dear Aunt Ri! And he married the other girl? Did it – were you – "

"Oh, yes, I was dreadfully cut up for a time, I can frankly say. The first year I thought I'd die and wanted to; the second I was not averse to living, though in a sort of twilight world; the third I was quite glad to live; the fourth I wondered how I could ever have been such a sentimental goose, and the fifth I thanked the Lord that I had escaped."

"Oh, Aunt Ri, Aunt Ri, you are dreadful."

"It is a fact, I can assure you, and I have been thankful ever since, not that Dick isn't a fine man, for he is, but, dear me, he would never have suited me, as I came to find out, and he suits Julia to a T. They are as happy as two clams at high tide."

"Then that is why you never married."

"It probably had something to do with it, for during the two or three years when I was wearing the willow came other chances which I didn't take, and when I had reached the stage of thanking the Lord for my escape my patient suitors had become impatient and had danced off to those who, in their opinions, had better taste. But, Verlinda, bear this truth in mind; I am still thanking the Lord. Come, if you have finished we'll be off. I see Nichols has sent around the man with the surrey; he is waiting outside."

The ride to Boxford over level shell roads would have been pleasant enough with a less companionable person than Miss Ri, but she who knew every house along the way had innumerable stories to tell, humorous, pathetic, romantic, and the time seemed very short before they reached the station from which they were to start on the second and more commonplace stage of their journey which ended at Mackenzie. This was a small settlement which appeared to consist of the station, a country store, and a few houses straggling along an unpaved street which stretched out into the country road, leading on and on indefinitely. There were few people in sight; a half dozen darkies lounged around the station, inside which the telegraph operator clicked away at his transmitter industriously, some children played in the street further up, but no one else was to be seen.

"Where do you suppose the postoffice is?" asked Miss Ri, looking around.

"At the store in all probability," replied Linda.

"We'll go over and see."

But, contrary to their expectation, they found the postoffice was not there but at the second house up the street. They could read the sign outside, they were told.

Its location known, the place was easy enough to find; a small white house, like any other of its type. The door was ajar and the travellers entered to find themselves in a square enclosure, a door to their left, and in front of them a box-like structure with a sort of window cut in it. Before the window hung a calico curtain. From behind this curtain presently appeared the head of a man.

"Good morning, ladies," the voice came with pleasant eagerness; "you're the ladies from Sandbridge? Mr. Matthews wrote to me about you. Will you just walk into the front room there, and take seats while I am sorting the mail. I'll be with you as soon as it is distributed."

Linda opened the only door in sight, and the two entered a plainly furnished room, which, however, provided two comfortable chairs, and in these they seated themselves to wait the postmaster's leisure.

They were mistaken if they thought their arrival was the unimportant matter it would seem to be, for, as the villagers began to come in, each made some excuse to enter the room, the first leaving the door ajar so the visitors could distinctly hear the postmaster, as he handed out the mail, importantly informing his friends: "The ladies from Sandbridge have come." So one after another made some pretext for seeing the strangers. "Where can I get a match?" one would inquire. "Oh, I've opened the wrong door," the next would say, while the third showed his ardent curiosity simply and honestly by merely standing in the doorway and beaming on the two ladies. Once or twice a salutation was offered, though more often it was not.

The finale occurred when two little girls, with hair slicked tightly back and braided in flaxen pigtails, appeared, each holding the hand of a little boy with as shining a face as her own. Each little girl grasped a large red apple, in one hand, taking frequent succulent bites as she stared with round china-blue eyes at the strangers. The little roly-poly boy stared quite as fixedly, but at the first question addressed, the three fled, though Miss Ri and Linda could hear them shrilly reporting their experiences to someone in the next room.

In due time the postmaster appeared. "You wanted a fix, ladies, I believe. I meant to have gotten Jo Wilson's, but he's gone to his wife's brother's funeral. Maybe I can get Tom Skinner's; I'll see. I reckon a buggy will do, and you can drive yourselves. Going to the old church, I hear."

"I don't think we can drive," spoke up Miss Ri. "We don't know the road, in the first place, and in the second I don't care to drive a strange horse."

The man looked quite taken aback; he had not counted on these complications. "Now, that's too bad," he said. "I just depended on Jo, you see, but funerals won't wait. I'll look around and find out what we can do." He departed, leaving the two to be peeped at over the window-sill by three pairs of china-blue eyes. Evidently the children's curiosity was not yet satisfied.

"I feel as if I belonged to a menagerie," laughed Linda, "and as if they'd be feeding me peanuts next."

Miss Ri laughed and beckoned to the children who incontinently took to their heels.

After some time the postmaster returned saying he had been able to get a buggy and a boy to drive it. He hoped the ladies wouldn't mind sitting three on a seat; the boy wasn't so very big. It was the best he could do; he hoped they would be comfortable and if it hadn't been for Jo Wilson's wife's brother all would have been well.

If Linda had been of Miss Ri's proportions they would have found it a tight squeeze, but the boy, as reported, was not very big, and they assured the postmaster that they could manage. The lad evidently had been gathered in hastily from the fields to don his Sunday best, and to make such ablutions as consisted in clearing a circular expanse in the center of his face, and then wiping his wet hands on his hair which was still moist from the application. With many charges to the boy and with many anxious queries as to the comfort of the strangers, the postmaster at last sped them on their way, and before many miles were covered the old church appeared dully through the trees. It had a decayed, unkempt aspect even at a distance, and a nearer view showed it set amidst riots of thorny bushes, and old trees, which had never been trimmed.

In what probably had been the priest's quarters in bygone days, they found an old woman who lived there as care-taker. She hobbled to the door to open to their knock, showing one foot swathed in bandages. She was as unkempt as the rest of it, but was both surprised and pleased to see visitors, and was ready to display to them remnants of tawdry hangings, shrines from which the paint was scaling, and in the dingy church, a company of dusty saints who looked out dimly from altar and niche, bedecked with once garish but now faded and discolored artificial flowers. Miss Ri gazed around with an expression half contemptuous, half pitying. "And this is where my grandparents worshipped. Poor dears, I hope it was better in their day."

"Oh, it was a fine church once," spoke up their guide, "but very few comes to it now, and there's a service only once a month."

They were glad to escape out into the sunlight. The old woman led the way back to her own quarters, discoursing all the time upon her ailments and asking for remedies. Being thirsty after the drive Linda begged for a glass of water, but when a brass thimble was fished out of a murky tumbler before it was filled, she concluded that nothing would induce her to drink it, and finally she made the excuse of speaking to the boy outside, when she found an opportunity of emptying the glass upon the grass.

This turning aside to visit the church had occupied some time, and it was noon when they reached "Mary's Delight," a beautiful old place bordering upon one of the many salt rivers which pierce Maryland's eastern shore. A tall, grey-haired man met them at the gate to open to them. "Howdy, Dick Goldsborough," cried Miss Ri.

"Of all things, Maria Hill," he responded. "Get right out. Well, this is a surprise. This your niece?"

"An adopted one. This is Betty Dorsey's daughter, Verlinda Talbot."

"Is that so? You are doubly welcome, Miss Talbot, for your father's as well as your mother's sake. I declare, Maria, this does take me back to old times. Come right in and I'll see about your horse. Where did you drive from?"

"We came up from Mackenzie. I wanted to see the old church, and the little boy has been our driver."

"Well, we can send him back and you shall return in a more comfortable way when you are ready to go. The boy must have some dinner. Just drive around to the stable, my boy, and one of the men will fix you up. You are going to make us a good visit, I hope, Maria. Father will be perfectly charmed to see you, and so will Julia."

They were ushered into a fine hall with a noble staircase rising on either side to the floor above. On one side the hall was a large room with a great fireplace now filled with crackling logs, in spite of the mildness of the day. Before the fire sat an old white-haired man who rose at the entrance of visitors.

"Here's a surprise for you, Father," said the younger man, raising his voice slightly. "Here is an old friend and the daughter of another. Miss Ri Hill and Jim Talbot's daughter have come to see us."

The old gentleman's fine face brightened as he held out a slender frail hand. "My dears, I am delighted, pleased beyond measure to see you. Won't you come to the fire after your drive?"

"It is very mild out, Judge; we won't come too near," Miss Ri told him.

He waited till they were seated and then took his old place, looking at first one then the other. Linda thought him charming with a nobly intellectual head, hair white and fine as floss, waving thickly around a face full of strength and sweetness, eyes both wise and kind, still showing brilliancy. The rather high and prominent nose was saved from coarseness by delicate nostrils, the mouth had not lost its shapeliness nor the chin its firmness.

Before Linda had time for many words with the judge Mrs. Goldsborough entered to welcome them warmly and to carry them upstairs to lay aside their wraps. A white-curtained room exhibiting the beauty lent by handsome old furniture and exquisite neatness was placed at their disposal. The windows on one side looked out on the river, on the other was obtained a view of fields and garden. A little negro boy chasing chickens was the liveliest object in sight. It was quite necessary that chickens be caught for a company dinner, as Linda well knew.

The children were all at school, Mrs. Goldsborough told them, all but the eldest daughter who was in Baltimore where an aunt would chaperon her in this her débutante season. The younger children had a governess at home, the two older boys were at St. John's in Annapolis. Mrs. Goldsborough, a very neat, still rather pretty woman, was graciousness itself, and would fain have carried Miss Ri off for a long talk, but that she must be down-stairs to oversee the rather inefficient servants which the country supplied. So the visitors were handed over to the judge and his son.

Miss Ri was not long in bringing the conversation around to where she wanted it, and began her queries on the subject of the Talbot estates, giving the judge her reasons for asking. With the intricacies of a conjectural case in view the judge threw up his head like an old war horse and declared his opinion. "Any flaw in the title to Jim Talbot's property? Of course not. He was the eldest son as his father and grandfather were before him. The home plantation was always left to the eldest son. Madison Talbot bought Addition from his brother Cyrus when he went west, I am sure of that. Talbot's Addition was what Cyrus inherited from his father, while Madison had the Angles. Oh, I can't make any mistake there. Anyone who claims the Angles can't have a shred of proof. I've a lot of papers somewhere; I'll get them out, Maria, and you shall hear from me. Dick, don't let me forget that. I think the papers are in the old secretary in my office, but I am not sure; they may have been moved. Who is this young man, Maria, who says he is the great grandson of Cyrus Talbot? Let me see. Hm!" He put the tips of his delicate fingers together and bent his gaze on the fire. "Cyrus had a son who was killed in the War of 1812, I remember that, but this son was unmarried. There was a daughter who went away with him."

"Lovina, wasn't it?"

"Yes, that was the name. I remember all that. You can't get me confused when it comes to those old matters, Maria; it is what happened yesterday that I forget. I'll look up those papers, however, and we will see if there is any sort of complication. Dinner, did you say, Julia? Maria, allow me. Dick, will you take out Miss Talbot?" And in this stately and formal manner they were conducted to the dining-room where was spread such a meal as one rarely sees except in just such a house in just such a locality. A great platter of fried chicken stood at one end of the table, a home-cured ham at the other, oysters, numerous vegetables smothered in rich cream, homemade jellies, pickles and sauces, the ever-present beaten biscuits, corn bread, wheat bread, all were there, and at the last a dainty dessert served with thick cream and pound cake.

The judge entertained them with many a tale of the days when he was young, when Martin Talbot, Senior, and he were chums, when old Admiral Hill used to sail over to Sandbridge from Annapolis to spend a holiday in his old home and to stir the boys' young blood with his sea stories.

It was after dinner that Miss Ri had a chance to talk to the old man in confidence and to tell him of Linda's misfortunes while he frowned and shook his head and spoke of men who disgraced themselves and their families by marrying beneath them, and at last he became so scornful of "John Blair's people," that Miss Ri was glad Linda was not at hand to hear. She was with the children and their pretty young governess out in the little school-house where the day's lessons were had, and it was only when she was sent for that she realized how happy a time she was having.