under the circumstances. And it was further related, that, when the maiden grew to ripe womanhood, he abandoned the trade of a buccaneer and made her his wife. The sailor told this story, shrugged his shoulders, looked knowing and mysterious, and left his auditors to draw what inference they pleased. As they had been talking of Captain Allen, the listeners made their own conclusion as to his identity with the buccaneer. True to human nature, in its inclination to believe always the worst of a man, nine out of ten credited the story as applied to the cut-throat looking captain, and so, after this, it was no unusual thing to hear him designated by the not very flattering sobriquet of the “old pirate.”
Later events, still more inexplicable in their character, and yet unexplained, gave color to this story, and invested it with the elements of probability. As related, the old gossip's second intrusion upon the Aliens, in the capacity of nurse, furnished the town's-people with a few additional facts, as to the state of things inside of a dwelling, upon whose very walls seemed written mystery. In the beginning, Mrs. Allen had made a few acquaintances, who were charmed with her character, as far as she let herself be known. Visits were made and returned for a short season. But after the birth of her first child, she went abroad but rarely, and ceasing to return all visits, social intercourse came to an end. The old nurse insisted that this was not her fault, but wholly chargeable upon the Captain, who, she was certain, had forbidden his wife to have anything to do with the town's-people.
CHAPTER II.
One day, nearly two years after the birth of this second child, the quiet town of S——was aroused from its dreams by a strange and startling event. About a week before, a handsomely dressed man, with the air of a foreigner, alighted from the stage coach at the “White Swan,” and asked if he could have a room. A traveler of such apparent distinction was a rare event in S——; and as he suggested the probable stay of a week or so, he became an object of immediate attention, as well as curiosity.
Night had closed in when he arrived, and as he was fatigued by his journey in the old lumbering stage coach that ran between the nearest sea-port town and S——, he did not show himself again that evening to the curious people who were to be found idling about the “White Swan.” But he had a talk with the landlord. That functionary waited upon him to know his pleasure as to supper.
“The ride has given me a headache,” the stranger said, “which a cup of tea will probably remove. Beyond that, I will take nothing to-night. Your name is—”
“Adams, sir. Adams is my name,” replied the landlord.
“And mine is Willoughby—Col. Willoughby.” And the Englishman bowed with a slight air of condescension.
“I am at your service, Col. Willoughby,” said the landlord in his blunt way. “Just say what you want, and the thing is done.”
“A cup of tea will serve me to-night, my friend. Let it be good and strong; for my head is a little unsettled with this throbbing pain. That stage coach of yours would be something better for a pair of new springs.”
“It's seen service, and no mistake. But people in these parts don't calculate much on easy riding. Springs are no great account. We look to the main chance.”
“What is that?”
“Getting over the ground.”
The traveler smiled to himself in a quiet way, as if the landlord's answer had touched some memory or experience.
Nothing further being remarked, Mr. Adams retired to order a cup of tea for his guest. Something about the Englishman had stimulated his curiosity; and, so, instead of sending the cup of tea by his wife, who did most of the waiting, he carried it to the room himself.
“Sit down, Mr. Adams,” said the traveler, after the tea had been put before him.
The landlord did not wait for a second invitation.
“I hope the tea is to your liking, sir.”
“Excellent. I've not tasted better since I left London.”
The traveler spoke blandly, as he held his cup a little way from his lips, and looked over the top of it at his host with something more than a casual glance. He was reading his face with an evident effort to gain from it, as an index, some clear impression of his character.
“My wife understands her business,” replied the flattered landlord. “There is not her equal in all the country round.”
“I can believe you, Mr. Adams. Already this delicious beverage has acted like a charmed potion. My headache has left me as if by magic.”
He set his cup down; moved his chair a little way from the table at which he was sitting, and threw a pleasant look upon the landlord.
“How long have you been in this town, Mr. Adams?” The question seemed indifferently asked; but the landlord's ear did not fail to perceive in the tone in which it was given, a foreshadowing of much beyond.
“I was born here,” he replied.
“Ah! Then you know all the people, I imagine?”
“I know all their faces, at least.”
“And their histories and characters?”
“Perhaps.”
Something in this “perhaps,” and the tone in which it was uttered, seemed not to strike the questioner agreeably. He bent his brows a little, and looked more narrowly at the landlord.
“I did not see much of your town as I came in this evening. How large is it?”
“Middling good size, sir, for an inland town,” was the not very satisfactory answer.
“What is the population?”
“Well, I don't know—can't just say to a certainty.”
“Two thousand?”
“Laws! no sir! Not over one, if that.”
“About a thousand, then?”
“Maybe a thousand, and maybe not more than six or seven hundred.”
“Call it seven hundred, then,” said the traveler, evidently a little amused.
“And that will, in my view, be calling it enough.”
There was a pause. The traveler seemed in doubt as to whether he should go on with his queries.
“Not much trade here, I presume?” He asked, at length.
“Not much to boast of,” said Adams.
Another pause.
“Any well-to-do people? Gentlemen who live on their means?”
“Yes; there's Aaron Thompson. He's rich, I guess. But you can't measure a snake 'till he's dead, as they say.”
“True,” said the traveler, seeming to fall into the landlord's mood. “Executors often change the public estimate of a man as to this world's goods. So, Aaron Thompson is one of your rich men?”
“Yes, and there's Abel Reeder—a close-fisted old dog, but wealthy as a Jew, and no mistake. Then there is Captain Allen.”
A flash of interest went over the stranger's face, which was turned at once from the light.
“Captain Allen! And what of him?” The voice was pitched to a lower tone; but there was no appearance of special curiosity.
“A great deal of him.” The landlord put on a knowing look.
“Is he a sea captain?”
“Yes;” and lowering his voice, “something