The preparations for the entertainment were still in progress, under the superintendence of Aunt Mary and Monsieur Perrot; the latter having already doffed his travelling attire, and assumed, in his jacket of snowy white, the command of the kitchen, when Harry Gregson, who had opened the Marietta post–bag, put a letter into the hands of Reginald Brandon, which he instantly knew, by the bold, careless hand–writing, to be from his uncle Marmaduke. He broke the seal, and read as follows:—
“Shirley Hall, July 15.
“Dear Reginald,
“I have very lately received your letter, announcing your intention of making a hunting excursion in the west, in pursuit of bears, elk, wolves, Indians, and other wild beasts. I hope you’ll come safe back, with a score or two of their outlandish brushes. After you left me, I began to feel very uncomfortable, and did not know what was the matter, for I was cold by night, and sulky and out of sorts by day. Parson Williams took me in hand; but though we drank many a bottle of old port together, and played drafts, and attended several road–meetings (which you know was an amusement I had never tried before), it was all no use, and I began to think that I was on a down–hill road to the next world; but, somehow or other, it happened that I dropped in now and then to the parsonage, and whenever I had talked half an hour with Margaret (you remember Margaret, the parson’s daughter), I felt in a better humour with myself and all the world. So matters went on, until one day I mustered courage to ask her to come up to the hall, and change her name to Shirley. She did so, and your old uncle writes with the halter round his neck. When I married, Perkins came down from London (the son of my father’s solicitor) with a dozen boxes of parchment, in a post–chaise; and made me sign my name at least a score of times; after which I desired him to draw up two more deeds for my pleasure. These were for transferring to yourself, and to your sister, a legacy left me a few years ago by an old relation whom I had never seen, and whose money I did not want. The amount is forty thousand pounds; so there will be twenty thousand pounds apiece for you, and you may set to work and clear (as you used to call it) an estate as big as the old county of Warwick. I explained what I was about to Meg, telling her, at the same time, that it was a debt that I owed you in conscience, having considered you for so many years as my heir, until her plaguing black eyes made a fool of me, and threatened me with the prospect of brats of my own. For this she pulled my ears twice; first for calling her Meg instead of Greta, by which name she was known at the parsonage; and secondly, for talking about the brats, a subject which always makes her cheeks redden. But I had no idea of putting the reins into her hand so early in the day, and I told her outright, that the first boy should be called Reginald, to please me; and the second might be called Greto, to please her; and the third might be called Marmaduke to please the family: on which, without waiting to hear any more, she bolted, and left me master of the field. I have just mentioned this, in order that you, if ever you get into a similar scrape, may know how to behave yourself. Mr. Perkins has completed his deeds of assignment, and has received my instructions to transfer the money to America by the next vessel, in bills upon Messrs. Powell and Co., of Philadelphia; and though I have more than once found you as proud and as straight–laced as a turkey–cock where money was concerned, I know that you dare not, you dog!—I say you dare not refuse, either for yourself or your sister, this token of the affectionate regard of your uncle,
“Marmaduke Shirley.”
The flush that came over Reginald’s open countenance as he read this epistle from his eccentric but warm–hearted relative, did not escape the watchful eye of Lucy, who was standing near him, and she anxiously inquired whether it contained any unpleasant intelligence.
“Read it, Lucy, and judge for yourself,” he replied, while he went to communicate its contents to Colonel Brandon.
We will leave to the reader’s imagination the mirth and festivity that reigned at Mooshanne during that happy evening; how Pierre, Baptiste, and Bearskin talked over their adventures of ancient and of recent date; how David Muir’s grey eye twinkled when he detected Jessie exchanging a stolen glance with Harry Gregson; how the cheers rang through the forest when the Colonel proposed the health of Prairie–bird, the long–lost child of his dearest friend, the bride of his only son; and how Aunt Mary’s sweetmeats and preserves adorned her snowy table–cloth; and how Monsieur Perrot had contrived, as if by magic, to load the hospitable board with every swimming, flying, and running eatable creature to be found in the neighbourhood, dressed in every known variety of form. The healths of Ethelston and Colonel Brandon had not been forgotten; and the latter, observing a shade of melancholy upon his son’s brow, said to him aloud, “Reginald, you have not yet given your friends a toast, they claim it of you now.”
Thus addressed, Reginald, reading in the dark eyes of his betrothed, feelings kindred to his own, said in a voice of deep and undisguised emotion, “My friends, you will not blame me if I interrupt for a moment the current of your mirth, but it would be doing equal injustice, I am sure, to your feelings and to my own, were we to part without a tribute to the memory of one, now no more, to whose self–devoted heroism Ethelston owes the life of a sister, and I the dearest treasure I possess on earth: The memory of my Indian brother, War–Eagle, late Chief of the Delawares!”