The rites were finished, the benediction bestowed, and friends and acquaintances left their pews, and crowded around with congratulations.

Among the foremost was Thurston Willcoxen, whose suave and stately courtesy, and graceful bearing, and gracious words, so pleased Commodore Waugh that, knowing Jacquelina to be married and safe, he invited and urged the accomplished young “Parisian,” as he was often called, to return and partake of the Christmas wedding breakfast.

“Nace, do you take your bride home in the gig, as you will want her company to yourself, and we will go in the carriage,” said the commodore, good-naturedly.  In fact, the old man had not been in such a fine humor for many a day.

Dr. Grimshaw, “nothing loth,” led his fair bride to the gig, handed her in, and took the place beside her.

“Now, then, fairest and dearest, you are at last, indeed, my own!” he said, seeking her eyes.

“Thank Heaven, I am not!  I never foreswore myself.  I never opened my lips, or formed a vow in my head.  I never promised you anything,” said Jacquelina, turning away; and the rest of the journey was made in silence.

CHAPTER XI.

DELL-DELIGHT

It should have been an enchanting home to which Thurston Willcoxen returned after his long sojourn in Europe.  The place, Dell-Delight, might once have deserved its euphonious and charming name; now, however, its delightfulness was as purely traditional as the royal lineage claimed by its owners.

Mr. Willcoxen was one of those whose god is Mammon.  He had inherited money, married a half-sister of Commodore Waugh for money, and made money.  Year by year, from youth to age, adding thousands to thousands, acres to acres; until now, at the age of ninety-five, he was the master of incalculable riches.

He had outlived his wife and their three children; and his nearest of kin were Thurston Willcoxen, the son of his eldest son; Cloudesley Mornington, the son of his eldest daughter, and poor Fanny Laurie, the child of his youngest daughter.

Thurston and Fanny had each inherited a small property independent of their grandfather.

But poor Cloudy had been left an orphan in the worst sense of the word—­destitute and dependent on the “cold charity of the world,” or the colder and bitterer alms of unloving rich relatives.

The oldest and nearest kinsman and natural guardian of the boys—­old Mr. Willcoxen—­had, of course, received them into his house to be reared and educated; but no education would he afford the lads beyond that dispensed by the village schoolmaster, who could very well teach them that ten dimes make a dollar, and ten dollars an eagle; and who could also instruct them how to write their own names—­for instance, at the foot of receipts of so many hundred dollars for so many hogsheads of tobacco; or to read other men’s signatures, to wit, upon the backs of notes of hand, payable at such a time, or on such a day.  This was just knowledge enough, he said, to teach the boys how to make and save money, yet not enough to tempt them to spend it foolishly in travel, libraries, pictures, statues, arbors, fountains, and such costly trumpery and expensive tomfoolery.