CHAPTER XXI.
NULLA VESTIGIA RETRORSUM.
So they were married, and the alliance between simple hearts and Normanblood was complete. It came to pass before many months that themillionaire, pleased, it may be, to find his homely patronymictransmitted to his grand-child, bought back Ripon House from themortgagees and gave it to his son-in-law. Mr. Windsor knew it was thesecret desire of his daughter that Geoffrey should return to England anddevote himself to aiding his countrymen in their struggle for liberty.But Geoffrey was too content with his own happiness and too appalled bythe confusion which still overspread his native land to evince muchenthusiasm in this regard. "Wait a little, Maggie," he said, and Maggiewas shrewd enough to understand that this was the better way to attainher purpose. She remembered how her husband had broken his sword andrenounced fealty to the perjured King. Give Geoffrey time, and he wouldwork out his own salvation.
But while individuals wedded and were happy and begat children, andwhile patient women tarried for God's word to awaken in their lovers'hearts, the great world, which is never happy and which never waits,rolled on remorselessly. England still knew perilous days, but the hopeof better things to come glimmered through the mists of evil rule.
The bulwark of the nation's safety in that hazardous time, as historywell knows, was Richard Lincoln; and though we who have faith that Godis ever working for man's good, know that human nature must in the endevolve into higher grades of truth and power, and that even thesublimest soul is but a cipher in the eternal scale; yet England hadneed of a rare spirit in that time of her sore distress to save her fromthe rocks of revolution and anarchy. She found this in Richard Lincoln,whose name will be ever famous in the gratitude of his countrymen.
In strange contrast to the career of which we have just been speakingstands out the final pageant of the once splendid court of Britain.George the Fifth died, leaving no son to inherit his foibles and histitle. The House of Hanover was shorn of male heirs in the nick of time,for it is doubtful if the populace would have permitted exiled royaltyto indulge in the mimicry of another dynasty. But for the purposes ofour story the King is still alive, since his death took place, as manyof us know, in his eightieth year. There were but few of those whosevicissitudes we have followed able to tell the tale when the lastHanoverian, tenacious of vital breath as he had been of everything else,descended to his fathers. _Le roi est mort_, but the old world cry,"Long live the king," is silent forever.
Perhaps one of the keenest strokes at the self-esteem of the unfortunatemonarch was the matrimonial apostasy of his daughter. The PrincessHenrietta, contrary to the long-cherished traditions of her race, weddedin her thirteenth year a commoner, as it was described at court. Shebecame the wife of L. Pierson Dana, a prominent dealer in hides andleather, and a man of culture and standing in the community. KingGeorge, with a senile confusing of terms, always insisted on speaking ofthe marriage as morganatic.
Concerning those who composed his court little remains to be said. TheDuke of Bayswater was joined by his wife shortly after his escape toAmerica. They never returned to their native country, but lived veryexclusively in apartments near to the royal suite.
Colonel Featherstone, lured by hopes of fortune, organized a successfulcorner in lard, and invested the proceeds in a vineyard in California.The famous blue seal dry Hanover, which is even to-day regarded byconnoisseurs as a grand _vin_, is a monument to his reverence forroyalty as well as to his talent as a vine-dresser.
One day in late November, when little Abraham was about five years old,signs of great activity were noticeable about Ripon House. For a weekpast the environs had been rife with rumors concerning the return ofGeoffrey to the house of his ancestors and the wealth which had accruedto him through his marriage with the daughter of the rich American whohad once rented the manor-house. London mechanics had been repairing andfurnishing the old-fashioned pile, striving withal to retain the flavorof antiquity which hung about its towers. There had been employment,too, for the artisans of the neighborhood, and even to-day, when theguests were to arrive before sunset, a bevy of the people were runninghither and thither at the bidding of an old man with white hair and bentfigure. He was evidently merely an upper servant, but the expression ofhis face betokened one whose joy and sorrow are an echo of his master'sfortune.
A few hours later a carriage drew up before the threshold. A young manleaped to the ground and grasped with both of his the hand of the agedservitor.
"How are you, Reynolds?"
"God bless you, Mr. Ripon; God bless you."
"And here is my wife, Reynolds. You remember her."
The old man doffed his hat with a respectful formality. It was still alittle against his grain to see an American his master's bride. "Welcometo Ripon House."
Maggie shook him by the hand, and her father's bantering voice nowstartled his dignified mood.
"So this is where you have been hiding all these years, Reynolds? Youlook like the wandering Arab, with your gray beard!"
Mr. Windsor doubtless referred to the Wandering Jew, but he was noscholar, as he would himself have been the first to acknowledge. Alllaughed at the mistake, and none louder than the fourth member of theparty, a tall, middle-aged man, with a noble but genial countenance.
It was Richard Lincoln, to whom time had been generous during the sixyears which had flown since he was last at Ripon House. Despite thecares which had weighed upon his spirit, his brow was scarcely furrowed.He had come to be Geoffrey's guest for a few days and enjoy thetranquillity of the country. There were business matters also to betalked over with his friend, for Geoffrey had promised to take an activepart in the public service of the country.
The friends sat long that evening around the dinner-table. There wasmuch pleasant talk, but every face wore a thoughtful look. Theintervening time since last they had gathered here was too full ofincident to be passed over lightly. Recollection stood beside thehearth, and yet with a finger on the lips, as though loath to jar theatmosphere of revery with a word. And yet there were references made tothe past. Lincoln asked what had become of that strange man Jawkins. Butno one knew further than that he had fled with the splendid beauty.
"Is that woman's husband still living?" inquired Maggie.
All shook their heads in doubt.
"And dear old Sydney, do you know anything of him, Richard?" said Ripon.
"Yes. Only a few weeks since he married an attractive little widow witha snug property. I had him pardoned, you may remember, among my firstacts as Prime Minister. Prison life seemed to have agreed with him. Hehad lost his dyspeptic air."
"That old scoundrel Bugbee had a curious end," observed Mr. Windsor. "Tothink of being bitten to death by a tarantula. Ugh! It seems he used tokeep spiders under glass in his apartments, and this was one thatescaped. And what an enormous fortune he left!"
So the conversation proceeded, and by and by they all adjourned to thelibrary, where a wood-fire lighted up the huge fireplace. RichardLincoln seated himself in a deep arm-chair beside the hearth, and ratheravoiding talk gazed at the sizzling logs. His own thoughts sufficed him.Maggie, whose seat was next to his, watched his expression, where ashade of sadness lingered when his attention was not engrossed byothers. At a moment that Geoffrey and her father were out of the roomshe leaned forward and said:
"Where is she buried?"
"They sleep side by side," was the quiet response. "Their love to-daylaughs alike at peasant and at noble. I try to think of it as a symbolof what is to be," he continued. "Theirs is the first alliance in thatreconciliation between the few and the many on which the hopes ofposterity depend."
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