"Sir," said Betsy, turning toward the crestfallen young lawyer, "I beg that you leave us. I have given you my answer; it is irrevocable.

Though humbly thanking you for the honor you would confer upon me, I can not be your wife."

"No, no! don't go, James. The girl does not know her own mind; but, by heaven, she shall be made to hear reason!" exclaimed Gilcrest, furiously. "Wait, man, I beg of you; I wish to confer further with you.

As for you, you undutiful, foolish girl, you may leave the room while I talk with Mr. Drane."

"No," said James, "it will be better for me to leave you now," and, bowing low, he took up his hat and departed.

"But, James, I--we----" stammered Hiram; but the discomfited suitor was out of hearing.

Gilcrest turned angrily to his daughter. "You self-willed, troublesome baggage!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

"Father," said Betty, quietly, "it is of no use for you to storm in this way. I have always been a dutiful daughter; but in this matter I mean to decide for myself."

"Why don't you speak to her, Jane?" he asked, turning to his wife. "Why do you sit there listless and dumb? Have you no influence over the girl?" But Mrs. Gilcrest was dissolved in tears, and leaned back tremblingly in her chair, saying never a word.

"Is everything going against me?" groaned the old man, pacing the room excitedly. "I'm thwarted and set at naught on every hand--church, neighbors, friends. I'll sell out and go back to Ma.s.sachusetts. To think that my only daughter!--Truly a man's worst foes are often those of his own household."

"I grieve to cross you, father," answered Betsy, "for you have until lately been fond and indulgent."

Trying to control himself to speak gently, he continued: "Betsy, my daughter, believe me, I know what is best for you. As James Drane's wife, you will be tenderly loved and indulged in every luxury, and have every whim gratified; and I do think that my heartfelt desire in this matter should incline you to at least consider well before you reject a man whom any other girl in the State would be proud to accept."

"Dear father," said Betty, going up to him and laying her hand beseechingly upon his arm, "I can never marry James Anson Drane."

The old man wavered as he saw the tears in his daughter's eyes, and felt the clinging touch of her fingers. "There, there!" he said soothingly, as he tenderly touched her wet cheek, "dry your eyes, dear, and be comforted. It is only your welfare and happiness I seek. We'll say nothing more just now; after awhile you'll see differently; and I predict that before many months have gone by, you will not only be reconciled to marrying James, but will be happy in the shelter of his love, and will thank me for having urged you to accept him."

"Never!" exclaimed Betsy, drawing back defiantly. "I shall never again listen to him, nor to you even, upon this subject. I dislike him exceedingly, and I love Abner Dudley with my whole heart. Marry James Drane! The very thought of such a thing fills me with loathing. I have no confidence in his truth and integrity. I would beg my bread rather than be his wife."

"I'll lock you up!" cried Gilcrest, exasperated beyond bounds, his momentary tenderness completely vanquished by the girl's words. "I'll starve you on bread and water, you insolent, outrageous fool!"

"O Hiram! Hiram! don't!" wailed Mrs. Gilcrest. "Don't be so hard. I can not bear it! Oh, what shall I do! what shall I do!" and she wept and trembled, and wrung her hands, until her husband and her daughter were alarmed.

"This is your work," he said to Betsy, as he bent over his hysterical wife. "You are breaking your mother's heart, you obstinate vixen. Ring the bell for Dilsey, at once. Remain where you are, until I return," he added to Betsy when Aunt Dilsey had obeyed the summons, and was a.s.sisting him to carry his wife upstairs.

His anger had cooled somewhat when he returned to the parlor half an hour later. "I can not, of course, force you to marry any one," he said to his daughter; "nor for the present will I urge upon your consideration the suit of Mr. Drane, against whom you have taken so unreasoning and unjust a prejudice; but there's another point upon which I must do my duty without shrinking. I command you to give up thinking of Abner Dudley, now and forever."

"I can give you no such obedience," Betsy replied. "I am his promised wife; but even though loving him as I do, I would give him back his troth, if you could show just and adequate reason why I should.

Instead, you give no reason whatever."

"Is not my wish reason enough?" he asked, desiring to spare her the humiliating knowledge of Abner's low birth, and the fact that he had given her back her freedom.

"No, sir, it is not. I am no longer a child, to be made to obey you blindly and unquestioningly."

"Then, if you will insist upon knowing my reasons, you willful girl, you shall be enlightened. Your precious lover has renounced you; and, what is more, he will never show his face in this community again."

"No, no! It can't be true. He is loyal. I will believe in him above all the world. He will return. I know he will," cried Betsy, shrinking and paling, but still strong in her faith.

"But he has renounced you, Betsy, my daughter. He has written me that he must give you up."

"Let me see the letter," said Betsy, still unbelieving.

Gilcrest crossed the hall to his office, and in a few seconds returned with Abner's letter. "I would have spared you this, my child, if possible," her father said as she eagerly seized the letter.

"Oh, what lie is this they have told you, my persecuted, darling Abner?" she exclaimed. "You, my proud, high-minded, n.o.ble lover, a b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Never, never, never! It's all a vile plot to cheat you of your betrothed wife and your inheritance. Ah! I know whose work this is. It is that smiling, treacherous Judas, James Anson Drane. I feel it, I know it."

"You rave, my miserable, deluded child," Gilcrest said sadly, "but even though you are for the moment well-nigh bereft of reason by the shock of hearing that your lover has given you up, you must not in your bitterness utter so wicked, so utterly unfounded an accusation against an honorable man who loves you truly and would make you his wife."

Nothing her father could say could induce her to believe that Abner was not laboring under some delusion about his being base-born. She could give no reason for this belief, she said; but her own heart and her own instincts told her it was all a mistake, or else a scheme to separate her and her lover. "This will all be cleared up, I feel that it will,"

she said again and again, "and he will come back to me soon, and without a stain upon his name. I intend to write to him at once, and tell him that though all the world should forsake him, I will still be true to him, and will believe, too, in his right to wear an honorable name."

Her father reasoned and pleaded in vain. He finally lost all patience, and grew angrier than he had ever been with her. "Go to your room, you unreasonable fool," he finally said. "Go! No longer offend my sight by your presence--but listen, first, and remember I will be obeyed. I forbid your writing one line to that base-born vagabond. Further, I forbid your leaving these premises or holding any communication with any one except members of this household, until you pledge me your word of honor to have nothing more to do with Abner Dudley."

"Then, I'm a prisoner for life," answered Betty; "for so long as I live and breathe, I shall love him. I mean to write to him as soon as I can manage to escape your vigilance and tyranny long enough to post a letter to him, and when he comes back to claim me, I will marry him in spite of you and that villain, James Drane."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

AT THE "BLUE HERON"

Upon the evening preceding Abner's contemplated return to Kentucky, to wind up his business there, and to hunt for evidence in regard to the Page brothers, he strolled down to the "Blue Heron," a tavern in an adjacent street. Entering the tavern, he found himself in the midst of rather an exciting scene, occasioned by a bet just made as to the relative height of two men who were standing leaning on the bar. Both men were of unusual height. At a casual glance the younger of the two, a frequenter of the tavern, would appear to be the taller, by reason of his extreme slenderness of build. The older man was a stranger. The two took their places in the center of the room, back to back; and it was then found that the older man was the taller by nearly an inch. Upon being measured, his exact height was ascertained to be six feet, two inches.

"Seems like I've shrunk some sence I wuz a young man," said the old fellow in a jocular tone, as he pocketed the stakes; "for then I measured six foot, two an' a ha'f, in my sock feet. Thar wuz only one feller in our reg'ment taller'n me, an' that wuz John Logan--'long John' we called him to 'stinguish him frum t'other John Logan, who wuz oncommon tall too, but nigh two inch shorter than 'long John.'"

For a moment Abner was unable to utter a word; then, under cover of the noise made by the hilarious group standing at the bar, drinking at the expense of the man who had lost the wager, he drew the old man to one side, and asked, "Were the two John Logans you speak of related?"

"Not thet I knows on, stranger--yes, sence I come to think on it, they wuz said to be cousins. I remember, too, thet they hailed frum the same place--somewhars in Pennsylvany."

"Can you tell me any more about them?" asked Abner, by a mighty effort managing to control his excitement, and to speak calmly.

"I don't know much uv Jack Logan, as the shorter uv the two wuz called," replied the stranger, who gave his name as Sam Butler, "'cept thet he wuz a fine feller, an' a brave soldier who wuz killed on the same day, in the same fight, as long John wuz. They both fell at Monmouth Court-house. But I knew long John well. He wuz my messmate an'

marchin' comrid, an' we slept many a night side by side on the ground, under the same blanket, when we wuz fortunit 'nough to hev blankets to kiver us. Why, I wuz by his side when he fell, killed by a bullet through his heart. I drug him offen the field, an' thet night holped bury him in the trench whar we laid so many uv our men whut lost ther lives in thet hot, awful fight."

"Where was he from?"

"He wuz borned in Kenelworth, Pennsylvany; but his folks moved 'round consider'ble. They wuz sort o' sheftless, I should jedge, an' never stayed long in any place."

"Was he married?"

"He hed a wife in Philadelphy, though I hed never hearn him speak uv her. After he wuz dead, I found in one uv his pockets a worn letter, months old, frum her, dated Philadelphy; and I got her word uv his death, though frum her letter I gethered thet they hedn't been gittin'

on well together, an' thet she 'peared to think he had misused her, an'

keered nothin' fur her. He wuz a reckless, drinkin', high-tempered, rough feller; but, Lordee! how brave, when it come to fightin'! He wuzn't feared o' old Nick hisse'f or eny uv his imps."

"What was his wife's name?"

"Blest ef I kin re-collect, stranger. It's twenty-odd year ago, an' you see, I----"