Up the carriage-road, in front, the sleigh containing our travelers drove. Good Mrs. Gower—who for many years had been Squire Erliston's housekeeper—alighted, and, passing through the long hall, entered a cheerful-looking apartment known as the "housekeeper's room."
Seating herself in an elbow-chair to recover her breath, Mrs. Gower laid the baby in her bed, and rang the bell. The summons was answered by a tidy little darkey, who rushed in all of a flutter.
"Laws! Missus Scour, I's 'stonished, I is! Whar's de young 'un! Jupe say you fotch one from the city."
"So I did; there it is on the bed."
"Sakes alive, ain't it a mite of a critter! Gemini! what'll old marse say? Can't abide babies no how! 'spect he neber was a baby hisself!"
"Totty, you mustn't speak that way of your master. Remember, it's not respectful," said Mrs. Gower, rebukingly.
"Oh, I'll 'member of it—'specially when I's near him, and he's got a stick in his hand," said Totty, turning again to the baby, and eying it as one might some natural curiosity. "Good Lor! ain't it a funny little critter? What's its name, Miss Scour?"
"I intend calling it Aurora, after my poor little daughter," replied Mrs. Gower, tears filling her eyes.
"Roarer! Laws! ain't it funny? Heigh! dar's de bell. 'Spect it's for me," said Totty, running off.
In a few moments she reappeared; and, shoving her curly head and ebony phiz through the door, announced, in pompous tones, "dat marse wanted de honor ob a few moments' private specification wid Missus Scour in de parlor."
"Very well, Totty; stay in here and mind the baby until I come back," said Mrs. Gower, rising to obey.
Totty, nothing loth, seated herself by the bed and resumed the scrutiny of the baby. Whether that young lady remarked the impertinent stare of the darkey or not, it would be hard to say; for, having bent her whole heart and soul on the desperate and rather cannibal-like task of devouring her own little fists, she treated Totty with silent contempt.
Meantime, Mrs. Gower, with a look of firm determination, but with a heart which, it must be owned, throbbed faster than usual, approached the room wherein sat the lord and master of Sunset Hall. A gruff voice shouted: "Come in!" in reply to her "tapping at the chamber-door;" and good Mrs. Gower, in fear and trembling, entered the awful presence.
In a large easy-chair in the middle of the floor—his feet supported by a high ottoman—reclined Squire Erliston. He was evidently about fifty years of age, below the middle size, stout and squarely built, and of ponderous proportions. His countenance was fat, purple, and bloated, as if from high living and strong drink; and his short, thick, bull-like neck could not fail to bring before the mind of the beholder most unpleasant ideas of apoplexy. His little, round, popping eyes seemed in danger of starting from their sockets; while the firm compression of his square mouth betokened an unusual degree of obstinacy.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Gower. Fine day, this! Got home, I see. Shut the door!—shut the door!—draughts always bring on the gout; so beware of 'em. Don't run into danger, or you'll perish in it, as Solomon says. There! sit down, sit down, sit down!"
Repeating this request a very unnecessary number of times—for worthy Mrs. Gower had immediately taken a seat on entering—Squire Erliston adjusted his spectacles carefully on the bridge of his nose, and glanced severely at his housekeeper over the top of them. That good lady sat with her eyes fixed upon the carpet—her hands folded demurely in her lap—the very personification of mingled dignity and good-nature.
"Hem! madam," began the squire.
"Yes, sir," replied Mrs. Gower, meekly.
"Jupe tells me—that is, he told me—I mean, ma'am, the short and long of it is, you've brought a baby home with you—eh?"
"Yes, sir," replied the housekeeper.
"And how dare you, ma'am—how dare you bring such a thing here?" roared the squire, in a rage. "Don't you know I detest the whole persuasion under twelve years of age? Yes, ma'am! you know it; and yet you went and brought one here. 'The way of the transgressor is hard,' as Solomon says; and I'll make it confoundedly hard for you if you don't pitch the squalling brat this minute out of the window! D'ye hear that?"
"Yes, sir," replied Mrs. Gower, quietly.
"And why the deuce don't you go and do it, then—eh?"
"Because, Squire Erliston, I am resolved to keep the child," said Mrs. Gower, firmly.
"What! what! WHAT!" exclaimed the squire, speechless with mingled rage and astonishment at the audacious reply.
"Yes, sir," reiterated Mrs. Gower, resolutely. "I consider that child sent to me by Heaven, and I cannot part with it."
"Fudge! stuff! fiddlesticks! Sent to you by heaven, indeed! S'pose heaven ever dropped a young one on the beach? Likely story!"
"Well, I consider it the same thing. Some one left it on the beach, and heaven destined me to save it."
"Nonsense! no such thing! 'twas that stupid rascal, Jupe, making you get out. I'll horsewhip him within an inch of his life for it!" roared the old man, in a passion.
"I beg you will do no such thing, sir. It was no fault of Jupiter's. If you insist on its quitting the house, there remains but one course for me."
"Confound it, ma'am! you'd make a saint swear, as Solomon says. Pray tell me what is that course you speak of?"
"I must leave with it."
"What?" exclaimed the squire, perfectly aghast with amazement.
"I must leave with it!" repeated Mrs. Gower, rising from her seat, and speaking quietly, but firmly.
"Sit down, ma'am—sit down, sit down! Oh, Lord! let me catch my breath! Leave with it! Just say that over again, will you? I don't think I heard right."
"Your ears have not deceived you, Squire Erliston. I repeat it, if that child leaves, I leave, too!"
You should have seen Squire Erliston then, as he sat bolt upright, his little round eyes ready to pop from their sockets with consternation, staring at good Mrs. Gower much like a huge turkey gobbler. That good lady stood complacently waiting, with her hand on the handle of the door, for what was to come next.
She had not to long wait; for such a storm of rage burst upon her devoted head, that anybody else would have fled in dismay. But she, "good, easy soul," was quite accustomed to that sort of thing, and stood gazing upon him as serenely as a well-fed Biddy might on an enraged barn-yard chanticleer. And still the storm of abuse raged, interspersed with numerous quotations from Solomon—by way, doubtless, of impressing her that his wrath was righteous. And still Mrs. Gower stood serene and unruffled by his terrible denunciations, looking as placid as a mountain lake sleeping in the sunlight.
"Well, ma'am, well; what do you think of your conduct now?" exclaimed the squire, when the violence of his rage was somewhat exhausted.
"Just what I did before, sir."
"And what was that, eh?—what was that?"
"That I have done right, sir; and that I will keep the child!"
"You will?" thundered the squire, in an awful voice.
"Yes, sir!" replied Mrs. Gower, slightly appalled by his terrible look, but never flinching in her determination.
"You—you—you—abominable—female, you!" stammered the squire, unable to speak calmly, from rage. Then he added: "Well, well! I won't get excited—no, ma'am. You can keep the brat, ma'am! But mind you, if it ever comes across me, I'll wring its neck