LITMIR.BIZ

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and the story he told her was not a cheerful one to hear.

      "It began," he said, "five years ago, by my father cutting his throat with a razor. They say he was crazy, and," with a fiendish chuckle, "some people say I am crazy too."

      "Indeed!" said mamma, sympathetically, "how sad!"

      "This we may call the first scene in the story," he added, although what connection there was between suicide and his proposed marriage with Ida, poor mamma could not imagine.

      I could half fill my journal with the rambling, senseless, and menacing remarks that Hudson made to mamma, adding emphasis to his discourse by whirling a pair of very long and sharp scissors close to her eyes (he was further armed with two razors, we subsequently learnt). Ida, he said, first appeared to him in a vision—a beautiful young girl in distress, who appealed to him for aid, but some one seemed to stand between them—a tall woman dressed as a Sister of Charity (evidently mamma, in her mourning dress and long crape veil). He then enlarged upon the awful punishment that inevitably overtook those who opposed the Will of Providence (i.e., his marriage with Ida): death by some violent means being unavoidable. At this point, the scissors were whirled more excitedly than ever, and Hudson's eyes glared with rage. I need not say that mamma feared every moment would be her last; but still preserving a calm exterior, she never took her eyes off him for an instant, and merely remarking, "It is quite warm here; shall we not sit upon the piazza?" accompanied him there, and sat down close beside him, that he might not suspect she feared him. The moments seemed endless until Bernard's heavy tread was heard upon the kitchen stairs.

      "Excuse me a moment," said mamma, with a most innocent face; and in an interview of half a minute explained to Bernard that Hudson was a dangerous lunatic who must be taken away immediately; then waiting till the valorous Bernard was safely out on the piazza, she unceremoniously shut and locked the door. Hudson, apparently much surprised at such inhospitable conduct, pulled the door-bell half a dozen times. When he was quite wearied with his exertions, Bernard suggested that they should take a little walk together. Much coaxing was requisite, for Hudson was quite determined to effect an entrance; but finally Bernard took his arm, and bore him off to the tavern.

      "I had much more to say to Mrs. Cleveland," he remarked, en route, "but I fear it has already been too much for her nerves."

      At the tavern, Bernard found a constable, who immediately arrested the unhappy victim of misplaced affection, and telegraphed to Mount Kisco for a magistrate. Then ensued endless hours of waiting. Mamma lay upon the sofa whiter than any ghost, now that the strain upon her nerves was relaxed, and Mrs. L——, a loquacious neighbor, ran in from time to time with reports of what people were saying, and how the prisoner looked and felt.

      At 7 P.m. the magistrate, Mr. Clarence Hyatt, arrived, and we all went down to the improvised court-house in the tavern. Ida and mamma were shown into a private room, where Mr. Hyatt, a very polite and agreeable gentleman, took their affidavits before they were confronted with the enemy. The news had by this time spread far and near, and all Chappaqua was assembled. The wildest reports were now circulated, to the effect that Hudson had pointed a pistol at Ida, and vowed to kill her instantly if she did not promise to marry him, and mamma and Ida were advised to keep their veils down, that he might not become familiar with their faces, and to remain at a respectful distance from him.

      Hudson was sitting between two constables, and was being inspected by a large crowd. He looked very quiet, and upon listening to the affidavits, remarked that Mr. Hyatt must have misunderstood the ladies, for he was perfectly incapable of having alarmed them to the extent indicated; that he certainly admired Miss Ida, and desired to marry her, but that he would not willingly injure or alarm the humblest creature—adding reproachfully that those affidavits would suffice to condemn him to State prison for life. He appeared so perfectly rational and calm, that the magistrate was perfectly dumbfoundered, and for the moment thought him sane; and even we commenced to reproach ourselves, and doubt which was the insane party.

      "Well," said Mr. Hyatt, "I will now hear your story."

      "I will read it to you," said Hudson, drawing a book from his pocket, and then commenced again the same incoherent nonsense with which he had already favored mamma. The object now was to show the chain of evidence that pointed out Ida as his bride. The most important link was the fact that he had once seen a flock of white geese sailing through the air. He put up his finger, and one fluttered down to him; and as G stood both for goose and Greeley, it was a clear manifestation of the Divine Will (at this point, the audience burst into a roar of laughter). Besides, he liked our family, we suited him in every respect; and especially because we so much reminded him of John the Baptist (we inwardly hoped that the resemblance would not extend to decapitation). If Miss Greeley would not marry him, he kindly added, he would take her cousin Marguerite instead, but he must positively marry one of the family. He was now perfectly wild, and when he remarked, with a reproachful glance at Ida, that he disliked ko-kwettes, and liked a girl who would say in answer to an offer, "Yes sir-ee," or "No sir-ee," the magistrate brought the evidence to a conclusion. He gave him to the constable to be taken to the county jail, where he was to be detained until the Court sat, if, in the meantime, his relatives did not appear from Massachusetts to claim him (for his place of residence varied—at first Baltimore, then Michigan, it was now Massachusetts).

      Hudson spent the night at the tavern, and appeared at times so rational, that he was not strictly guarded; consequently, when the constable looked for him after breakfast, the bird had flown. He was instantly followed, and discovered walking on the railway track about two miles off, swinging his little bundle quite unconcernedly. In reply to the questions of his captors, he said that he had just intended to make a little circuit about the country, and then return to marry Ida. He is now, thank fortune, safely lodged in jail.

CHAPTER IV.

       Table of Contents

      A Visit from Papa—A Musical Squirrel—Letters—Croquet—Extracts from Letters—Visitors—The Loss of the Missouri—The True Story of Ida's Engagement.

      June 13.

      Papa came up late last night with a supply of the latest periodicals, weekly journals, etc., and my pet squirrels in a new and spacious cage. These little creatures were presents to me this spring, and are very pretty, and partially tame. I remember, however, one escapade of theirs shortly before we left the city.

      My balcony at home is enclosed with glass, and there I frequently allowed the squirrels to play. A game of cache-cache, of half an hour or so, was generally necessary before I could induce Fliegende Holländer, the livelier of the pair, to return to the narrow limits of his cage. One day, however, through some carelessness, the door from the balcony into my room was left open, and the squirrels were missing. Senta (christened after the heroine of Wagner's clever opera) was captured after some little difficulty, but not the Dutchman. Being a flying squirrel, he was so very tiny that he could easily conceal himself in a dark corner, and although I descended upon my knees to peer under my sofa, bureau, writing-table, and chiffonnière, my search was fruitless—the Flying Dutchman had evidently vanished to join the Phantom Ship. I felt very uneasy, fearing he might fall a prey to my two cats, who would no doubt find cold squirrel a very tempting entremet; or if he escaped this Scylla, the Charybdis of death by starvation lay before him. The hours passed, and Fliegende Holländer did not appear. Senta was cheerful, and reigned mistress of the revolving wheel—always the bone of contention between the pair. Once, during the afternoon, I fancied I heard a scratching as if of tiny claws, but could not obtain even a glimpse of his vanishing, fan-shaped tail.

      In the evening two or three gentlemen were present, and Marguerite sang for them. After the song (Gounod's "Naïade," a lovely salon piece), we were speaking of the loss of dear little Holländer, when one of our friends exclaimed:

      "Why, that squirrel was perched over the register while Miss Cleveland was singing, but he was so quiet that I thought he was stuffed."

      "He

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