Jasper County Democrat, Volume 2, Number 42, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 January 1900 — AN AMERICAN GIRL ABROAD. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

AN AMERICAN GIRL ABROAD.

BY WIL LIAM BLACK.

CHAPTER V.—(Continued.) We passed the qniet little hamlet of Woolvercot, the only living creatures visible being some white geese on the green; and shortly thereafter we stopped our noble vessel for a second or two, and got out for a stroll along the towpath. 'And a very pleasant stroll it was; the air was soft and sweet, the sunlight was snore general now, and lay warmly on the hawthorn hedges and the grassy hanks. Of course, Miss Peggy was busy with her study of English wild flowers; and the young man who seemed rather glad to be her attendant did what he could to assist her; and as she got together wild hyacinths and primroses and speedwells and forget-me-nots and Rosalind’s “daisies pied and violets blue,” she sometimes hummed or whistled a bit of the “Green Bushes” tune that had apparently got into her head. "I sha’n’t forget to write out that song for you,” said her companion—as if the assurance were needed! r “I think I know the air,” she answered; “if you will kindly give me the .words.” It turned out a clear and golden afternoon; and the westering light lay softly on the foliage of the willows and elms, On the wide and silent meadows where the cattle were, and on the banks nearer bs that were yellow with buttercups. And the night that followed was one of the most perfect moonlight nights I had ever seen. , “On a night like this,” said our young (American friend, “isn’t it a pity we haven't some beautiful music? The tinkling of a banjo spoils everything.” “Peggy,” said Queen Tita, putting her hand on the girl’s arm for a moment, “sing ‘My Old Kentucky Home.’ ” Thereupon Miss Peggy—who is the soul of good nature when there is no mischievous project in her head—took up her banjo, which lay in her lap, and began to «ing, and very well did her rich contralto voice sound in the stillness of these slumbering woods and fields. One could not help wondering what some belated rustic would have thought of it all if he had chanced upon us on his way home; the black trees and the gray canal showing no sign of life; that spectral white thing moored in there among the willows with its motionless points of red sre; the silence all around absolute but for the strange singing of a woman’s voice. CHAPTER VI. It was hard that such a perfect night should be succeeded by a wild and blustering morning; the rain was rattling on our house roof; there was a wail of wind through the swaying and dripping bushes and trees. In the midst of all this turmoil, Captain Columbus suddenly makes his appearance, and, with serious aspect, informs us that we cannot go any further at present. The authorities, it appears, lock the canal gates every second Sunday. Queen Tita, of course, is far from being disappointed.. She highly approves of stopping the traffic every second Sun--day, and doubtless would have the regulation extended to every Sunday, if she had the power. We had three visitors that evening! Two of them, whom we found on the bank when We returned to the boat, were of rustic mold, and in stolid silence, and with calm, immovable gaze they contemplated the strange object that had invaded those solitudes. They made no remark; their eyes wandered not; they merely stood there and stared and stared, as fished the famous fisher of Sunburie. They stared at the boat, at the windows, the gunwale, the Eller, the roof, the anchor at the bow. And never a word they upoke. We left them staring. Our third visitor—to Jack Duncombe’s obvious discomfiture —was no other than Mr. Algernon A’Becket, who arrived some little time before dinner in high glee over his success in discovering our whereabouts. Indeed, he was quite hilarious, notwithstanding that his trousers looked rather damp, and he was just a little bit hungry; Murdoch was bidden to make speed, while the women folk began to light the lamps and candles in order to brighten up the saloon. Jack Duncombe, of course, would take no part in the entertainment of this new guest; but Mr. A’Becket seemed capable of making himself at home without much trouble; and Mrs. Threepenny-bit and her young American friend, as they were laying the cloth and otherwise getting matters made easy for Murdoch, were very courteous and complacent toward him. “And how are you to get back, Mr. A’Becket?” his hostess said to him, not unnaturally. “I wish we could offer yon a berth.” “Not at all, not at all!” he answered, with abundant cheerfulness. “I know precisely where I am now.” “I am sure it’s more than we do,” she observed, rather ruefully. “And you know I was anxious to see how you looked en voyage,” he continued, with a well-satisfied glance all round; "and really nothing could be more snug and delightful. How strange it must be to feel yourselves so entirely isolated; a small party all by yourselves, and wandering away into these out-of-the-world places; really, it makes one a little envious.” Jack Duncombe glared; was the man actually begging for an invitation? And at dinner, too, Mr. A’Becket seemed quite content so long as he could address himself to the two women. Jack Dunoombe rarely interfering, except when there was a chance of his posing as Min (Peggy’s natural ally and champion. In{deed, the younger man strove to appear |n that light whenever occasion offered, •nd seemed ready to sacrifice the most •acred institutions of his native land for the mere sake of taking her part. For example, our Oxford friend was talking pbout the irreverence for antiquity comMonly attributed to the American people, ■nd said ha.had once heard an American

declare that Bquattersville, Nebraska, was of more value to the world than Westminster Abbey, because Squatteraville was full of living men, whereas Westminster Abbey was full of dead ones. Whereupon Miss Peggy said, sensibly and modestly enough, as we thought: “Well, sometimes our people at home say things like that, but they don’t believe them. They think it clever to startle you, that is all.” That ought to have been enough. But it wasn’t enough for Jack Duncombe. Oh, dear, no. Something must be said on behalf of Miss Peggy’s countrymen. Miss Peggy herself was not to be crushed by the dread might and majesty of Westminster Abbey. “After all,” said this reckless young man, “if you walk through Westminster Abbey, and impartially look at the names of the people they have put there, you’ll come to the conclusion that in former days it was pretty easy to get in. Look at John Phillips. Did you ever hear of John Phillips?” Our learned friend from Oxford, being thus directly challenged, had to confess his ignorance of the enshrined John Phillips. "Well, he was a writer of comic verses; at least, I believe they are considered to be comic,” the younger man continued with superfluous scorn. “I know this; I could get you twenty living writers who could do infinitely better verses; indeed, if John Phillips were alive new there is one place where you would not find him, and that is at the Punch weekly dinner!” Mr. A’Becket turned to Miss Peggy, and said to her, with a smile: “Your countryman whom I heard make that remark is said to be worth thirty million dollars.” “He isn’t worth consideration,” she answered, with a kind of audacious petulance; and there the subject dropped. You should have heard how that young man broke forth when our guest had to leave us to find his way across country to some railway station that he named. You would have thought that this harmless freak on the part of an Oxford Don, Instead of being in its way a kind of compliment, was really a gross invasion of one’s inalienable rights. If we wished to be by ourselves, why should we not be allowed to be by ourselves? Mr. Jack Duncombe made much use of that word “ourselves.” He seemed to like it, somehow. "I propose,” said he, in his reckless fashion, “that we should give up our leisure time on this trip to the composition of a great and learned work, just to show what we can do. Will you join, Miss Rosslyn?” “Oh, yes,” says the young lady, with calm effrontery. “What is it to be about?” “Oh, anything will serve to show off with. We must make it imposing. The square of the hypothenuse, if yon like.” “That would be very interesting,” she observes!! with muc hcomplacency. “Of course you will begin with a description of the square; I mean, the square in which the Hypothenuse lives?” “Certainly,” he answers, “catching on” with alacrity. “Then we come to the habits of the Hypothenuse—his time of getting up and going into the city.” “I would have something more romantic than that,” Miss Peggy says, thoughtfully. “If he lives in a square, there must be people opposite." One of them bright be a young lady.” "Yes, undoubtedly; but she is rather an unknown quantity yet; we will call her X until we can settle more about her. She ia living with her Uncle Rhomboid.” “And the Hypothenuse has the greatest difficulty in meeting with her,” she con tinues. “The gardens in the square would be a good place; I suppose the Hypothenuse would have a key.” “Naturally. But then, again, Aunt Parallelogram distinctly approves of the match, and is going to leave all her money to X. Would you make the Hypothenuse rich or poor?” So these two young idiots went on, one of them apparently taking a grim delight in thus revenging himself for the intrusion of a stranger among “ourselves.” There was no other thought for the hapless Scholiast making his way along darkened roads to wait for the last train in some solitary little railway station. Here the lights were burning clear, and they were now safe from all interference, with aimless merriment and bandied words and laughing glances to fill full every glad and precious minute.

CHAPTER VII. On this still morning, while as yet the unknown world around us seemed but half awake, there is a tall young lady, of slim and elegant figure, standing all alone in the stern of the boat. It is the Person without a Character. She has perched herself on the steersman’s plank; her arms are placed on the transverse iron rod, her chin rests contemplatively on her crossed palms. And who can tell what dreams and reveries may not be in the calm deeps of her eyes, which can be thoughtful and wistful enough when they are not full of malice? Apparently she is looking away across the undulating landscape, with its varied features of wood and meadow, of hedge-row and upland slope, emerging from the pale mists of the dawn; but there may be quite other visions before her. Perhaps she is thinking of the olden days of romance and heroic adventure, when noble earls “came sounding through the town;" perhaps she is only thinking of New York, and of some facetious and correctly dressed young man there. When one civilly bids her good-morning she turns round with a startled look; clearly her thoughts have been far away. “Well,” she says, “the more I see of England, the more I am surprised to think how such a wonderful lot of things should have happened in so small a place. And not only small, but—but—empty. The country seems dead. There’s nobody in it. Last night I was reading about Warwick and Kenilworth, just by way of preparation, you know, for i suppose W* shall gM there this evening. Well, where did all those great lords find the people to build splendid castles for them? Where did they get such sums of money?

Where did an the armies come from that were in the Wars of the Roses?” Now the spectacle of a young mind in eager quest of knowledge is, as has been observed before, a pleasing sight: but it has to be pointed out to Miss Peggy that the study of English history ought to remain prohibited during the remainder of this trip, to avoid misconception, and for the better silencing of scandalous tongues. “Ah, now,” she says, plaintively, “isn’t it hard that wc should be subjected to such cruel taunts and suspicions? And so unjustly, too; that is the shameful part of it; if there was the smallest atom of foundation for the things they say of us, I shouldn't mind. Ido really believe,” she continues, with an air of solemn conviction, “that you and I are the two most absolutely perfect characters the world has ever known. I have never met with any one just quite so good as we are. And, of course, that is the explanation. Perfect people are never properly comprehended. The only comfort is,” adds Miss Peggy, complacently, “that you and I Understand and appreciate each other; and they are welcome to say all those things about us as often as they please.” This was all very well; and indeed it was satisfactory to think that one had won the commendation of a being so confident of her own moral worth. •> But there was this to be considered about Peggy, that you could never be very sure of her. Indeed, when she was most amiable she was most to be distrusted; when she held out both hands to you in the frankest fashion, you had to beware lest they should turn out to be the two knobs of an electrical machine. The next Instant, with immovable face and inscrutable eyes, she remarks, in a casual kind of way: “Mr. A’Becket is coming to Warwick.” “What!” “Yes, he is.” “Well, you arc—l declare you are ” “I?” she says, with a blank stare of innocence. “What have Ito do with it?” “Then how did he tell you and no one else of his coming?” “Oh, as for that,” she says, in a careless fashion, “he only mentioned it in going away as a kind of possibility. If he had spoken of it to you, it might have looked like asking for an invitation. And perhaps he mayn’t come, after all. I’m sure, if I were he, I wouldn’t take the trouble.” “Probably not.” Just at this moment we were unexpectedly interrupted. There was a barge coming along, drawn by two donkeys, each with a nose-tin slung at its head; and along with them was a tall young bargeman, as handsome as Apollo, but with a sun-tan on his face and a mild fire in his eyes unknown to the marble figures in the Uffizi corridors. After a preliminary and rather diffident glance at the young lady, he made bold to ask us whether we were going on that day? “Yes, certainly,’ was the answer. “Then you’ll have to make haste,” said the sun-browned Apollo, “for they’re going *to repair Clayton Lock, and unless you get on at once, you won’t get through until to-morrow.” Now, this was most unwelcome news; for, though it was well enough, once in awhile, to spend a whole twenty-four hours by the side of a meadow, with speedwells, dandelions, pollard-willows, swifts, water rats, and an occasional sheep, as our only companions, still we felt that we had not been making sufficient progress, and we had certainly calculated on reaching Warwick that night. So there was nothing for it but to summon Murdoch forthwith, and bid him leave breakfast alone and go scour the neighboring country in search of Captain Columbus and the Horse-Marine. Well, we got through Clayton Lock easily enough; and thereafter entered upon a long stretch of eleven miles without any lock at all. This was by far the most lonely district into which we had as yet penetrated; and as the canal is here on a high level, we had a sufficiently spacious view of the richly cultivated but apparently uninhabited country. Far as the eye could reach there was nothing visible but fields, hedge-rowi and upland heights, with here and there a clump of trees, or perhaps a solitary barn, a bit of red showing pleasantly enough among the prevailing greens. The day was brightening up, too; sweet, mild airs were blowing; there was even, now and again, a ray of watery sunlight striking on some distant slope. We began to wonder whether we had at last escaped from the rain that had pursued us so incessantly; for, of course, we did not want our pretty Miss Peggy to go away back to America with the impression that England was a land of perpetual mists. (To be continued.)