Literary Lapses | Page 3

sat was the family escutcheon
emblazoned above the mantelpiece. A child might read the simplicity
of its proud significance--an ox rampant quartered in a field of gules
with a pike dexter and a dog intermittent in a plain parallelogram right
centre, with the motto, "Hic, haec, hoc, hujus, hujus, hujus."
* * * * *
"Father!"--The girl's voice rang clear through the half light of the
wainscoted library. Gwendoline Oxhead had thrown herself about the
earl's neck. The girl was radiant with happiness. Gwendoline was a
beautiful girl of thirty-three, typically English in the freshness of her
girlish innocence. She wore one of those charming walking suits of
brown holland so fashionable among the aristocracy of England, while
a rough leather belt encircled her waist in a single sweep. She bore
herself with that sweet simplicity which was her greatest charm. She
was probably more simple than any girl of her age for miles around.
Gwendoline was the pride of her father's heart, for he saw reflected in
her the qualities of his race.
"Father," she said, a blush mantling her fair face, "I am so happy, oh so
happy; Edwin has asked me to be his wife, and we have plighted our
troth--at least if you consent. For I will never marry without my father's
warrant," she added, raising her head proudly; "I am too much of an
Oxhead for that."
Then as she gazed into the old earl's stricken face, the girl's mood
changed at once. "Father," she cried, "father, are you ill? What is it?
Shall I ring?" As she spoke Gwendoline reached for the heavy bell-rope
that hung beside the wall, but the earl, fearful that her frenzied efforts
might actually make it ring, checked her hand. "I am, indeed, deeply
troubled," said Lord Oxhead, "but of that anon. Tell me first what is
this news you bring. I hope, Gwendoline, that your choice has been
worthy of an Oxhead, and that he to whom you have plighted your troth
will be worthy to bear our motto with his own." And, raising his eyes to
the escutcheon before him, the earl murmured half unconsciously, "Hic,
haec, hoc, hujus, hujus, hujus," breathing perhaps a prayer as many of
his ancestors had done before him that he might never forget it.

"Father," continued Gwendoline, half timidly, "Edwin is an American."
"You surprise me indeed," answered Lord Oxhead; "and yet," he
continued, turning to his daughter with the courtly grace that marked
the nobleman of the old school, "why should we not respect and admire
the Americans? Surely there have been great names among them.
Indeed, our ancestor Sir Amyas Oxhead was, I think, married to
Pocahontas--at least if not actually married"--the earl hesitated a
moment.
"At least they loved one another," said Gwendoline simply.
"Precisely," said the earl, with relief, "they loved one another, yes,
exactly." Then as if musing to himself, "Yes, there have been great
Americans. Bolivar was an American. The two Washingtons--George
and Booker--are both Americans. There have been others too, though
for the moment I do not recall their names. But tell me, Gwendoline,
this Edwin of yours--where is his family seat?"
"It is at Oshkosh, Wisconsin, father."
"Ah! say you so?" rejoined the earl, with rising interest. "Oshkosh is,
indeed, a grand old name. The Oshkosh are a Russian family. An Ivan
Oshkosh came to England with Peter the Great and married my
ancestress. Their descendant in the second degree once removed,
Mixtup Oshkosh, fought at the burning of Moscow and later at the sack
of Salamanca and the treaty of Adrianople. And Wisconsin too," the
old nobleman went on, his features kindling with animation, for he had
a passion for heraldry, genealogy, chronology, and commercial
geography; "the Wisconsins, or better, I think, the Guisconsins, are of
old blood. A Guisconsin followed Henry I to Jerusalem and rescued my
ancestor Hardup Oxhead from the Saracens. Another Guisconsin..."
"Nay, father," said Gwendoline, gently interrupting, "Wisconsin is not
Edwin's own name: that is, I believe, the name of his estate. My lover's
name is Edwin Einstein."
"Einstein," repeated the earl dubiously--"an Indian name perhaps; yet

the Indians are many of them of excellent family. An ancestor of
mine..."
"Father," said Gwendoline, again interrupting, "here is a portrait of
Edwin. Judge for yourself if he be noble." With this she placed in her
father's hand an American tin-type, tinted in pink and brown. The
picture represented a typical specimen of American manhood of that
Anglo-Semitic type so often seen in persons of mixed English and
Jewish extraction. The figure was well over five feet two inches in
height and broad in proportion. The graceful sloping shoulders
harmonized with the slender and well-poised waist, and with a hand
pliant and yet prehensile. The pallor of the features was relieved