Flags hung at half mast the rest of that day, and minute guns were fired at sunset. And there was something sad and solemn in the dull, booming sound as it echoed and reechoed over that broad and mysterious sea. And when night came, and drew a dark curtain around the ship, and her timbers murmured and complained, and every sail stood out in shadow against the clear sky, and the surface of the water seemed alive with sprites, flitting and dancing here and there, groups of sorrowing men were seen gathered about the decks, giving expression to their grief at the loss of their old captain.
"God bless him! He was good to us all. There'll be no more whales to kill where he has gone." These were the words of regret that fell from lips that rarely invoked a prayer.
At midnight, when the bells had struck, the crew gathered together on the forward deck, and while one held a lamp another read the Episcopal service for the burial of the dead. And as the light at times reflected each figure of the group, giving it a phantom-like appearance, the picture presented was sad and impressive—such as can only be seen at sea, where each sound calls up some memory, and the sailor fancies he can see the spirit of some departed friend in every flitting shadow.
Officers and men alike began to feel how great was their loss. They were alone, as it were, on this broadand mysterious ocean, and they had lost that odd old man who was their guiding spirit, and who never failed them as friend and protector. All through that night the men watched and strained their eyes in every direction, expecting to see the old sailor rise on some crest; and more than one sailor that night cheered his drooping feelings with the firm belief that some mysterious agency would give them back the old captain before morning.
There was no one on that ship, however, who felt the loss more seriously than Tite. It seemed to change all his prospects, to throw a shadow over his future. He paced the deck, silent and thoughtful, until long after midnight. To him the captain had been not only a friend, but a father. Between them there had grown up the strongest of attachments. Tite had looked forward to the time when this odd old man would have lifted him into the confidence of his owners, and perhaps secured his future prosperity.
All his hopes and joys seemed blasted now. Love, too, had been playing its bewitching part; amidst all these drawbacks and disappointments, love had been prompting his ambition with her dreams of a happy future. Mattie's image, so bright, so beautiful, had been with him everywhere, prompting his thoughts and actions as only the woman you love can, and making him more ambitious to secure that golden future his fancy had pictured. Never before had his courage failed him. No matter what the danger, he had felt that she was at his side, encouraging him. Now the gloomy thought of returning home penniless, with, indeed, nothing but his adventures and misfortunes to offer her and his aged parents, began to prey upon his mind, to make him sad and despondent. Then theadvice so often given him by the old captain, never to get discouraged, not even under the most adverse circumstances, and that the brightest day was sure to follow the darkest night, would cheer him up.
When the whale had been taken aboard, the ship, under her new commander, Mr. Higgins, stood away into the North Pacific, where she cruised along the land, in the direction of Behring's Straits, for several weeks. The prospect not seeming to brighten much, Mr. Higgins thought he would try an experiment in what he called "high latitudes," and to that end headed the ship for the Auckland Islands. Now the crew had but little respect for their new commander, and no confidence whatever in his skill as a navigator.
After proceeding in this direction for ten days, one morning about four o'clock the lookout called the attention of the officer of the watch to strange sounds heard close ahead. It resembled the dull, sluggish sound of breakers on shore during a calm. The sounds became louder and seemed to be approaching the ship, but as her reckoning gave no land anywhere near, the cause of the sounds began to excite great alarm. The captain was called and the crew turned out, and an effort made to put the ship on the other tack, but it was of no avail. An almost dead calm prevailed, and the ship refused to obey her helm. In short, the ship was being carried rapidly forward in the grasp of a strong under-current. A heavy fog hung like a pall overhead, enveloping the ship's royals and top-gallant sails; and as the noise increased a strange feeling of awe and fear came over the crew, exciting their superstitions to the highest pitch.
As the ship went on the sounds began to resemble the dashing and surging of a heavy body of waterforced by a strong tide through a narrow gorge. Still nothing could be seen of land, which increased the strange sensations produced by so singular a phenomenon. Nothing either crew or officers could do would improve the situation, for in the ship's condition they were as helpless as children. The lead was cast, and sixty fathoms called. It was now evident that there was land close by. But the trail of the line only showed the more clearly that the ship was at the mercy of some rapid and dangerous current, perhaps being drawn into some whirlpool. Now the fog seemed to lift, and long lines of light were seen ahead, but it was only to be succeeded by greater darkness. Then the sounds began to change and vary; and while what seemed voices were heard singing and sighing overhead, the deep rush and roll of waters below had a strange and bewildering effect on the feelings. Now the moon seemed to be rising through the fog ahead, and a pale, white light gleamed for a few seconds, then disappeared, and all was dark again. And as the ship advanced, the bold outline of a high and nearly perpendicular bluff revealed itself above the fog, and had the appearance of hanging directly over the ship. There was no mistaking the danger now. In a few minutes more the ship was between walls of rock three hundred feet high, drifting swiftly through a narrow channel of deep and agitated water into a dark and dangerous cavern.
The ship passed in under full sail; the atmosphere changed and became singularly oppressive; the very blood chilled; fear seized on all on board, and men who a short time before were full of courage and strength now became as helpless as children. The current was less rapid inside, but the noise increased and became even more bewildering; while the barometerwould rise and fall quickly, and the compasses became agitated under the influence of some strong magnetic disorder. Every few minutes deep and rumbling sounds would break in the distance, roll along the cavern, and echo and reëcho through the great arches overhead. And these would be succeeded by soft, flute-like voices, mingling in chorus. The effect of this, in so dark and dungeon-like a place, where the mighty hand of Nature had performed one of her wildest freaks, was bewildering in the extreme, and gave wing to the strangest fancies. Hardly a word was spoken; not a brace manned, nor a sheet touched. The ship moved along as if directed by some unseen hand, for there was no wind in that deep, dark cavern. Then the water became broken, and the surface checkered with phosphoric lights, flitting and dancing, like so many sprites on a revel. The arch overhead became covered with a pale light, which seemed to struggle against the darkness; then stars, or what appeared to be stars, were seen, as through a mist. Then they would suddenly change into every variety of color, and reveal the existence of massive columns of basaltic rock supporting the arch. Still the distracting sounds were heard, but no order was given concerning the ship, scarcely a word exchanged between the men. They felt that they were drifting into some unknown sea, perhaps some place of enchantment, where death was certain, and from whence nothing more would ever be heard of them.
Could this be the mermaid's retreat of which the old captain had spoken, and of which the natives on Queen Charlotte's Island had such a strange superstition? Tite thought to himself. All the pleasant associations of home, all that he loved there, and all thathe had hoped for, now rose up in his mind like a sweet and beautiful dream, only to be overshadowed by the terrible thoughts this strange and gloomy place had impressed upon him. There was no hope for him now; he felt that he should never enjoy those scenes again. But what was that to the anguish of his poor old parents, who would linger on week after week, month after month, and year after year, wondering and waiting in vain for some news of him, and dying of hope deferred.
While he was thus musing a pale, aurora-like light broke in the distance, directly ahead of the ship. Now it opened gently, now shut again. Again it glimmered and gradually expanded until the whole cavern became aglow with light, and presented a scene of such enchanting beauty that all on board were spell-bound with admiration. Massive columns, grand and impressive, rose on every side to the very roof, and reflected all the colors of the rainbow. And through them the gallant old ship continued to sail, like a phantom.
This bright, bewitching scene continued for about fifteen minutes, when the light gradually died away, and all became dark and solemn. Then deep, plunging sounds of falling water indicated with startling effect that the ship was approaching a mighty cataract, down which she must soon plunge to her destruction. These sounds, made more terrible by the darkness, were like death-knells, calling the men to prepare to meet their doom.
And while all on board were contemplating these sounds, the ship suddenly careened a-starboard, a harsh, grating noise was heard overhead, and quantities of broken crystallites began falling on deck. This was followed by a crashing sound, and the ship righted.The topmasts had fouled, and one after another were carried away and now hung, a dangerous wreck. Then her gib-boom came in contact with one of the columns, and met the same fate. The ship now swung round and struck with a violent shock on a sunken rock, and almost simultaneously her mainmast went by the board, she began to fill and settle down, and soon became a forlorn wreck. A short consultation was held between the officers and men as to what was best to be done. There was, however, no alternative but to take to the boats, and make the best effort possible to save life. There was no time to lose. Five boats were quickly launched, and manned, and supplied with such provisions and water as could be procured in the hurry of the moment. An officer took command of each boat, and Tite managed to secure six of the best oarsmen on board. There was no excitement, no disorder. Everything was done with as much order and regularity as if nothing had occurred to interrupt discipline.
And now when the five boats were ready, and the order given to "pull away," each man seemed to pause and take a last fond look at the old ship, as if a lingering affection caused him to part from her with reluctance. And as they stood taking this last look, the light again broke forth, giving to the strange scene a weird and bewildering effect.
The boats now pulled away, Tite's boat taking the lead. They had agreed to keep together as much as possible, (and to that end made signals at short intervals,) gain the ocean and seek relief along the shore. Darkness soon shut in again, however, and the noises were so bewildering that the signals from the boats could not be understood, and they separated never to meet again.
We must now follow the fortunes of the boat commanded by Tite. He had been fortunate enough to secure a compass, which, though it did him little good while in the cave, would be of great assistance to him outside. The question as to how the entrance of the cave bore, and the surest way of gaining it, was of most importance now. Tite estimated that they were at least ten miles from it, and that by steering directly against the current, they could not fail to make it. After pulling steadily for four hours, stopping only once to refresh themselves, they came in sight of the entrance, and saw daylight beyond. A feeling of joy now came over the men, and three hearty cheers were given that echoed curiously through the arches overhead. Still there was another and serious obstacle to contend with. A boar, or tidal wave, had made at the entrance, and was rushing in with a roaring noise and such force that the boat could not have stemmed it for a minute. It was therefore, necessary to seek safety behind some high rocks on one side of the entrance, and wait a change in the tide. After waiting in this position for nearly an hour they again put out, and headed for the entrance. A rapid current was still setting in, and the men had to pull with all their strength to stem it and gain the ocean.
When they had gained the ocean they felt as if they had been suddenly transferred to another world. After waiting several hours, and none of the other boats making their appearance, Tite headed his boat west and stood down the coast, close in shore, in the hope of finding a safe landing place, perhaps a friendly settlement. An almost perpendicular bluff of rocks, more than two hundred feet high, forming a walled coast, such as is seen in the Bay of Fundy, and at the footof which the sea dashed and broke, rendering it impossible to make a landing, extended as far as the eye could reach. Along this frowning coast the boat swept until nightfall; but not a human being was seen, nor a place where they could land safely discovered.
Three days and three nights they coasted along this bold sea-wall, and now their provisions and water had given out, and such was their suffering from thirst, hunger, and cold, that two of the crew died from sheer exhaustion. Indeed, it was only extraordinary exertion on the part of Tite, and his manner of encouraging the others, that kept them from giving up in despair. Early on the morning of the fourth day an indentation in the land was discovered, sloping into a quiet little valley, a place of welcome to the weary, through which a stream of water winded down into the sea. Each heart now beat high with joy. Deliverance had come at last. The boat's head was directed toward the beach, but the wind had freshened, and a heavy surf was beating on shore, and unless the boat was skilfully handled there was great danger of swamping. Still the boat was kept on, and in less than half an hour from the time the beach was discovered the boat was plunging through the breakers.
On entering the surf an immense roller overtook the boat, lifted her high up on its crest, and, owing to some unskilful management, she was capsized. The crew were tossed into the boiling surf, and left to struggle with the receding waves for their lives. Tite's first thought was to secure the boat, and seizing hold of the line he made a desperate effort to gain the beach, and was successful, as were two of the men. The others were too weak to make much of a resistance, and were carried away by the undercurrent, and nothing more was seen of them.
With only the drenched clothes they stood in, no means of lighting a fire, and death from starvation staring them in the face, these three shipwrecked men stood upon the beach of this strange island, still hoping and wondering what was to be the next change in their condition. Was the island inhabited? By whom? What was the character of the natives, and what sort of reception would they meet when found? These were the questions which engaged their thoughts as they stood on that lonely beach, hoping against hope, and every minute fancying some friendly sail heaving in sight to relieve them from their perilous position. After the darkest night comes the brightest day. This was ever uppermost in Tite's mind, and he endeavored to impress its teachings on the minds of his companions, who were fast yielding to their fears, and would have given up in despair had not his stronger resolution encouraged them still to hope for deliverance.
There was an abundance of small shell-fish along the coast, and on these they subsisted. It was agreed to remain near the boat during the day, as a precaution against an attack from the natives, who might have seen them approach the coast, and perhaps be watching their movements near by. But the day passed and not a human being was seen. At nightfall a couple of goats and a pig, and some fowl that appeared to be keeping them company, emerged from a thicket on a hillside,descended into a valley or ravine, and drank in the brook. The sight of these animals filled the hearts of the shipwrecked men with joy. It was to them a proof of civilization. New hopes, new joys, new strength came with the sight of these animals; and they advanced cautiously toward them. But the animals were shy, and scampered away up the hill at the first sight of the strangers.
There was a high hill near by, and, encouraged by the sight of these animals, Tite started off just at dusk to ascend it and survey the surrounding country, leaving his comrades on the beach to guard the boat. It was quite dark when Tite reached the top, but the stars were out, and the atmosphere was clear. Not a habitation was to be seen, nothing but a wild, unbroken forest as far as the eye could reach. He watched there for an hour or more, his eyes quickened by anxiety, and his mind becoming more and more excited, until his fancy pictured in every shadow some moving object. Then, as his eye traced along down the deep ravine, he discovered, or rather thought he discovered, a pale wreath of smoke curling lazily upward, not more than a mile from where his comrades lay. What at first seemed only a fancy, now became a reality, for the smoke increased in volume, and indicated with certainty a habitation of some kind.
Descending the hill as quickly as he could, he found the two men fast asleep, overcome with fatigue and excitement, and it was with great difficulty that he could awake them. When, however, he told them what he had discovered, their hearts filled with joy, and they sprang to their feet ready to follow him. Still they entertained a lurking fear that the smoke might mark the bivouac of some savages who had watched theirmovements during the day, and lighted this fire to cook the evening meal.
They followed the stream about two miles up the ravine, picking their way over rocks and through a thick wood, until they came to a little gurgling brook, cutting its way through a deep dell running at right angles with the ravine. Here they rested for a short time, and carefully surveyed the scene, excited by strange thoughts. A light suddenly flashed from the opposite bank, not more than forty yards ahead. This evidently marked the object of their search. Then those familiar sounds made by goats, fowls, and pigs were heard. Crossing the dell they advanced cautiously in the direction of the light. They had not gone far, however, when an opening in the woods was discovered, in the centre of which a small, rude cabin, built of stones and mud, stood. A bright fire was burning inside, smoke was issuing from the rude chimney, and the light shining through two square openings in the sides, was reflecting curiously over the scene outside.
Again the three men halted, and stood viewing the scene in silence, now hoping, now fearing, now wondering what sort of beings inhabited this strange place. Still the domestic animals kept up those noises, so familiar to Tite's ear when at home. And these were broken at intervals by what seemed the barking of a wolf. Now a strange and shadowy figure passed and repassed in the cabin, its uncouth form reflecting every few seconds in the light. Should they advance, enter the cabin, and see who this strange being was, or return to the beach and wait until morning? This was the question which occupied their thoughts now. Impelled as well, perhaps, by anxiety as necessity, Tite resolved to push on to the very door. Leaving themen with orders to follow him at a short distance, he proceeded on cautiously until he reached the edge of the opening in which the cabin stood.
He was now within a few paces of the door, when the fowls, which seemed to abound in the vicinity, discovering him, sounded the alarm. The cabin door now opened, and there stood, in the shadow of the light, the figure of an old man bent with age, and dressed in the skin of a wolf, the long fur of which gave him more the appearance of an animal than a human being. His face was like colored parchment, his mouth and cheeks wrinkled and sunken, his eyes small, black and bright, his long, white hair and flowing beard, his bony hands, which he raised every few moments and held over his long white eyelashes, as a shield to his sight, gave him a strange and witch-like appearance.
There the two men, the figure in the door and Tite, stood for several minutes gazing in silence, but with a look of astonishment, at each other. The animals and fowls had gathered in a group about the old man, alarmed at the sight of a stranger. At length a thin, shrill voice broke the silence by enquiring: "Who is it that comes here to disturb my peace?"
"We are friends," replied Tite, "shipwrecked sailors, in search of shelter and food."
The cabin door now opened, and there stood, in the shadow of the light, the figure of an old man bent with age, and dressed in the skin of a wolf. Page 216.The cabin door now opened, and there stood, in the shadow of the light, the figure of an old man bent with age, and dressed in the skin of a wolf.Page 216.
"Heaven pity you, and forgive me," returned the old man, his eyes beaming brighter and his whole manner becoming more earnest. "Heaven forgive me, you shall have both, and be welcome in my palace. Heaven forgive me, for this is my palace and I am king of this island. Come in, and such as I have you shall share with me." And he advanced, took Tite by the hand, and led him into his cabin, the two men following. Spreading seal and wolf skins on the floor, he bid them be seated, while he prepared food for their supper. His motion was a shuffle rather than a walk, and he moved about the cabin more like an animal than a human being. He seemed to have an abundant supply of dried fish, fowl, and fruit; of vegetables and roots, from which he made a beverage that filled the place of coffee. And with these and some goat's milk he soon set before them a supper, saying as he invited them to partake, "Heaven forgive me for all my sins, and they are many. Your are countrymen of my own, and speak the same language. Ah, I had almost forgotten it, as the world has forgotten me. Now it all comes back, and makes me feel happy. I am old, very old now. Heaven forgive me. There will be no more of poor old George Dunman soon. When he dies he will die with great sins on his head. If sin can be washed out with sorrow, Heaven knows I have had sorrow enough." He advanced towards Tite, and laying his hand gently on his shoulder, looked earnestly and intently into his face: "you are young, very young," he said, "crime has made no wrinkles in your face yet. Mine is full of age and crime, and a heart filled with remorse, have burned their deep seals into mine. Look you, young man," and he pointed to his eyes, "these eyes were not made to weep. But this poor heart of mine is crushed with its crimes." Here he pressed his right hand to his heart, and raised his eyes upwards, as if imploring Heaven's forgiveness in silence.
This continued invoking Heaven's forgiveness excited Tite's curiosity to know something of the old man's strange and wonderful history, for he already began to feel that there was a terrible crime at the bottom of it. When they had partaken of supper and were all seated around the fire on their skins, and nothing but themusic of the brook was heard outside, the old man requested Tite to give him an account of his voyage, together with the place and manner of their shipwreck. Tite was glad to comply with the old man's request, for it afforded him an excellent excuse for making a similar one.
The reader has already been made familiar with Tite's unfortunate voyage, hence it will not be necessary to repeat it. The recital interested the old man deeply, and when he had reached that part which described their troubles in the cave, the old man's eyes sparkled, and his whole nature seemed to warm into enthusiasm.
"There's where my ship lays, guns and all," he said, pressing his hands on his knees. "My men used to call this island 'No Man's Island,' and they named that place 'The Cave of Enchantment.' Then they named it after me. The natives on an island ten leagues from this have a queer superstition concerning it. They call it the devil's last resting place, and assert that it is peopled by mermaids, who get honest navigators into it, and then destroy them. My ship lays there, guns and all," he repeated.
When Tite had finished his story, the old man began his by saying: "Heaven forgive me, for I am a great sinner, and have much to answer for in the next world. I was born in Bristol, England. My father was a clergyman of the established church. I have no remembrance of my mother, for she died when I was an infant. When I was fifteen years old I was sent to sea as a means of bettering my morals. I served first on board an Indiaman, made two voyages to China, and was wrecked on the coast of Malabar; and when I got home my father or friends procured me the position ofmidshipman on board a man-of-war. I served on board the frigate Winchester, and other of His Majesty's ships, I did, for fifteen years, and was only a midshipman at the end. Heaven forgive me for my sins. It seemed there was no promotion for me. I was then transferred to His Majesty's packet service, and assigned to the brig Storm, carrying six guns, and the mails between Plymouth and the North American provinces. She was a beauty of a craft, that Storm was. She used to carry a crowd of canvas, and jump the seas like a sea-bird. I was four years first officer of that craft, was proud of what she could do, and the devil took advantage of my ambition, and created within me a longing to be in command of her, and make myself heroic by roaming unrestrained on the free sea. That feeling kept increasing until it become a passion with me. Then it was my misfortune to fall in love. Yes, love was a misfortune to me. I had courted and was engaged to the daughter of a rich old man who had made all his money in the West Indies, and still had plantations there.
"We were to be married on my return, after a voyage to North America. But I returned to find her married to a young officer who had sailed companion with me on board man-a-war, and who had professed great friendship for me only to deceive me. He had professed to be my friend and confident; and it was this that carried the knife of disappointment to my very heart. I was denied an interview with the woman I had loved, even worshipped. The man who had professed to be my friend now turned his back on me, and denied me even an explanation." All the fire there was left in the old man now seemed to kindle into ablaze, and the fiercer elements of his nature took possession of him.
"To make the matter worse," he continued, "our good, kind, and brave captain was relieved, transferred back to the navy, and this man, who had outraged my confidence and made my life wretched, appointed to fill his place. I resolved to be revenged. But how could it be got? How could I punish the man who had so wronged me without rebelling against my country, against God's laws, and against society? The devil told me it could be done.
"As it was not a question of conscience with me, in the frame of mind I was then in, there was no trouble in following the devil's advice. I conceived a plan for sending this captain out of the world by the shortest road, seizing the ship, and roving unrestrained upon the free sea. It was soon found that there was enough on board to join the enterprise and share the spoils, and the plan was carried out when we were half voyage over. That was fifty years ago. I shall never forget the terrible struggle of that night, nor the bloody work that was done. Heaven forgive me. When I had got command I ran the Storm into the Caribbean Sea, landed all who were suspected, as well as such as more openly opposed the enterprise, on an island, and then put away for the Pacific via Cape Horn. When we got into the Pacific, we hoisted—." The old man paused suddenly and hung down, his head. "Heaven forgive me for my crimes," he resumed, evidently in doubt about acknowledging the full force of his crimes.
"I may as well tell you it all—shake the load free from my conscience, and ask you to join me in invoking Heaven's forgiveness. We hoisted the flag that sees an enemy in every other flag, and for three years the Stormscourged these seas from Cape Horn to Sands' Head. When ships, sent in pursuit of us, were searching along the west coast, we were making war on commerce on the coast of China. We had a name for every sea we entered, so as to make our pursuers think there was more than one vessel, and so divide their attention.
"Yes, for three years we scourged these seas, and made war on land as well as sea—capturing, plundering, murdering—yes, committing crimes that shame manhood, and make me fear the vengeance of a just God. And all for gold, gold, gold. And what good can gold do a man with a conscience haunted by crimes committed in getting it? Gold can do me no good; but man is a mean animal at best; and you can so teach him in crime that he will commit the most revolting out of sheer wantonness.
"We soon had more gold and jewels than we knew what to do with. Some of our men left us and went home with enough to make them rich for the rest of their lives. And we have buried enough on these islands to buy a city. Gold lost its charms with us, and crime became an excitement and an entertainment.
"We discovered this island while cruising from one ocean to the other, and found on it some sailors, whose vessel had been wrecked near where you landed. They had been seven years here, and it is to them we are indebted for these animals and fowls. They lived contented, for they had given up all hope of getting away, and are all dead now. We made this place a retreat, had a settlement here, after the wreck of the Storm in the cave, of forty men. They are all dead but me. I have been here forty years—nine of them passed alone;and now my time has almost come. I took the name of George Dunman because I had disgraced that of my parents, and because I am an outlaw, and I want to die here and be forgotten."
It was after midnight when the old man finished his story. His manner became nervous and restless, and it was evident there was something more he wanted to disclose, but hesitated to do.
The strangers accepted the old man's invitation, and took up their abode under his roof, finding plenty of food and kind treatment. But they soon became weary of so monotonous a life, and longing for some means of reaching their homes and civilization, would visit the coast nearly every day, in the hope of seeing some friendly sail and effecting their deliverance. This anxiety to get away on the part of his new friends so preyed on the old man's mind that his strength began to fail fast, and at the end of two months it became evident that his sands of life had but a few more days to run.
Two months passed, and the weather was becoming cold. The old man was up earlier than usual one morning; still he seemed more feeble. He tottered about the cabin, his frame shook and trembled, and his whole system seemed to be under some new excitement. He had formed a strong attachment for Tite, whom he now approached with his hands extended. "Like you," he said, grasping his hand firmly and looking up imploringly into his face, "I was young and handsome once. I am old and ugly now. Crime has written its ugly finger all over my face; has thrust its poison into this poor heart of mine. Never let it lay one ugly finger on your face. Make yours a life of joy, so that you may die happy. Oh, thesepoor old gray hairs of mine, this head that has sinned so much." And he raised his hard, bony hand to his head, and tossed the long white hair back over his shoulders.
"Come with me, come with me, young man," he resumed, grasping Tite by the arm nervously and tottering to the door. When they got outside he whispered in his ear: "You shall see where it is buried before I die. It has made my life wretched; it may make yours happy." He paused for a few seconds, and looking back, saw the two men standing watch at the door. "Come," said he, beckoning to them, "you may as well come, too."
The men joined them, and when they had reached a spot about twenty rods from the cabin, they came to a square pile of stones, in a dark wood on the side of a hill. The old man sat down, and resting his arms on the stones, continued: "Here, buried three feet below these stones, is gold and silver enough to make you all rich for life, and perhaps happy. Churches, convents, ships, and even life itself have contributed to it. All I now seek is peace in Heaven; and yet I cannot get that with this gold, for it is the price of crime and death. Take it, take it; and when my life of sorrow is ended, and these poor old bones shall move no more, divide it among yourselves; and if Heaven sends you a deliverance from this lonely island, so live that it may bring you blessings, not curses, as it has done me."
Three days after what I have described in the above paragraph took place, Tite and the two sailors returned from the coast and were alarmed to find the cabin deserted. They waited for a short time, and then searched the woods in the vicinity, but could findnothing of the old man. The compasses were there, and his nautical instruments were still hanging on the wall, and the fire was nearly burned out. It had been his custom to have supper ready punctually when they returned. There was now a strange and mysterious stillness about the place. Even the fowls and the animals seemed silent.
On proceeding to the spot where the treasure was buried, they found the lifeless body of the old pirate. Old Dunman was dead, and lay there, with two of his pet goats nestling at his side.
"Husband, dear; husband, dear," said Mrs. Chapman, for I must again return to that lady, as she addressed her meek-looking little husband, "how distressing it would be if Mr. Gusher should turn out not to be Mr. Gusher. He is such a nice young gentleman, and so popular in society. If he should turn out to be somebody else? He has been such a favorite at our house, you know. I am sure I should never survive such a scandal as that. I am sure it would kill me—at least I should faint; I feel as if I should faint now!" "Pray don't faint, pay dear," interrupted Chapman, submissively, as she handed him a letter she had received that day from Mr. Romer. And as she did so, she got up and paced the room in a state of great agitation.
"Never faint, my dear," resumed Chapman, "until you know what you are fainting for. There is nothing to be made by fainting or borrowing trouble." This conversation took place in the parlor one evening about three weeks after the ball. Chapman read and reread the letter, and then remained silent for several minutes. "Very strange, if true, my dear. But there may be a personal difficulty at the bottom of it, and the young man has taken this method of damaging Mr. Gusher's character."
Mr. Romer presented his compliments to Mrs. Chapman, and, seeing the intimacy there was between her family and a person calling himself Philo Gusher,begged to inform her that the name of that individual was Louis Pinto, a notorious and well-known impostor, who had fled from Havana, where he had been several times imprisoned, to escape punishment for his crimes.
"Anything but that, my dear husband. I am sure my pride would never survive it. And to happen just when society—yes, my dear, the very best of your Bowling Green people were beginning to leave cards. Another ball and we should have brought the best of them down."
"Another ball, my dear?" returned Chapman, with a sigh. "A ball a year ought to satisfy any respectable family." Chapman was indeed becoming alarmed at his wife's extravagance and weakness for society. Her worldliness he feared would bring him to grief ere long. The last ball had entailed the expense of new carpets; and the young gentlemen had quite taken possession of the house, which they held until after daylight, and then went home in a very unsteady condition of the limbs. To make the matter worse, Bowles had been very much demoralized ever since, and now demanded another horse or his discharge. He had no complaint to make either about his pay or livery; but to have it thrown up to him every day, and by all the coachmen in the neighborhood, that he was in the service of a one horse family, was more than his proud spirit could bear.
Chapman held that dancing was not the profession of a gentleman, and that balls had done nothing for the great moral progress of the world. In fine, his mind had been engaged for some time back on something more serious; and he delighted his wife by telling her that he had been working up a great scheme for freeing and vitalizing all mankind.
The door bell rang, and in another minute Mr. Gusher, all serene and elegant, was ushered into the lady's presence. Never was young gentleman more exquisitely upholstered.
The lady extended her hand and received him cordially, saying she had been looking for him with unusual anxiety.
"I am very glad you have come, Mr. Gusher," interposed Chapman. "My dear wife is oppressed with a little matter I am sure you can relieve."
Mr. Gusher turned and thanked them for the high compliment thus paid him. "You shall ze as I shall be so grateful for dis 'onar. And your daughter—she is well?"
"Very well—she was speaking of you kindly to-day. Here is something that reached me to-day, Mr. Gusher," she resumed, rising from her chair and handing him the letter, with a dignity of manner quite uncommon to her: "I am sure you will pardon me, sir, but it contains matter which, as a friend of yours, I have taken the liberty to submit. I make it a rule to stand by a friend, you know."
Gusher took the letter and began reading it with an air of unconcern. Then breaking out into a hearty laugh, he replied: "Zis grand rascal as write dis let-tar is one par-tick-lar friend of mine—"
"I am sure, sir," rejoined Mrs. Chapman, "he is an enemy of yours, and no friend. That you can explain it all satisfactorily, I have no doubt."
"Pardon, madam, pardon; this grand rascal I call him one friend. Ze 'onar, madam, he is so much dear to me as my life. Oh yes, you shall zee as my 'onar and mine country is more dear to me zan my life. Zis grand rascal, he is my friend be-cause he do me zisinjury so many times, and in ze end he do me so much good. You shall zee zar was a lady. Zat lady, ze grand rascal as writes zis letter—it is so many years ago, as I almost forget—pays to her his compliment. Pardon, madam, zat lady prefar me to ze gentleman. Zen zat gentleman he pays to me his compliment like one grand rascal. He persecute my 'onar, and he make me so many friends—"
"Really, Mr. Gusher," interrupted Mrs. Chapman, encouragingly, "then it is all the result of jealousy? I had a suspicion that there was something of the kind at the bottom of it."
"You shall zee, madam, it was be-cause ze lady prefar me. Zen I give ze grand rascal one pistol." Here Mr. Gusher flourished his right hand. "You shall give me ze satisfaction as one gentleman he give to ze oser, I say. I gives to ze grand rascal one small sword. I say I shall have ze satisfaction one gentleman he will give to ze oser. No, madam, ze grand rascal, he is one small coward. He will not give me ze satisfaction. I shall show you as this grand rascal tells not one word of ze truth."
"I told you, my dear," said Chapman, "that Mr. Gusher was a gentleman, and would explain it all to your satisfaction."
Mrs. Chapman expressed herself highly gratified at what she had heard. But in order to put the matter beyond question, and to prove to her entire satisfaction that he was not only an innocent, but a much injured gentleman, Gusher returned on the following day armed with a large number of letters, some of them sealed with great seals, the writers setting forth that they had known the young gentleman from his birthup, that he was of irreproachable character, and his parents very distinguished people.
Of course the Chapmans were entirely satisfied. Indeed Mr. Gusher so turned his guns on Mr. Romer as to make his position extremely uncomfortable. Both were guests at the old City Hotel, where Gusher was a great favorite with all the young ladies, and to whom he related his difficulty with Romer. In short, he so enlisted their sympathies in his behalf that they were ready to join him in ejecting Romer from the house as a slanderer. One said what a mean thing he must be to slander the handsome young foreigner in that way. A second tossed and turned her head aside when she met him, and pouted her pretty lips to let him know what she meant. A third refused to return his bow, while a fourth gave him the cut direct. There was no standing up against such a storm of female indignation as he now found blowing about his ears. He saw, also, that to have attempted to sustain his charges with proof would only be sheer folly. In short, there was nothing for the plain young outspoken American to do but surrender the field to the handsome young foreigner and his female admirers, seek respectful treatment beyond the sound of their voices—and wait.
Oh, what a sweet charm there is in hope. How it beguiles the ambitious lover, causes him to build castles he finds crushed at last under his disappointments. How gently it lifts the drooping heart into an higher realm of cheerfulness, still gilding and brightening the future. Day after day and week after week it carries the timid, desponding soul over its sea of trouble and disappointment, and pictures its love-dream in colors more and more beautiful. How it ensnares us, and then betrays us with its false visions of future bliss. It beguiles both you and me with its featly spun tales of fame and riches, which it weaves so ingeniously into its fascinating web.
Such were the thoughts invading Mattie's mind as she sat at the parlor window one morning, looking out over Bowling Green, contemplating the strange influences by which she was surrounded, and wondering what the future would bring her. There was something so earnest and yet so kindly in that pale, expressive face, and those soft blue eyes.
She had counted the days since Tite sailed. It was nearly three years ago, and only one letter had been received from him. There was a report in circulation now that the ship, with all on board, was lost. And although this report could not be traced to any reliable source, it was credited by the owners, who had heard nothing of the ship since she left Coquimbo.
The love Mattie bore Tite burned as brightly now as on the day when first it was kindled. She had thought of him always, dreamed of him, prayed for him, for she had the heart of a good and true woman. Yes, she had followed Tite in her love-dream through all the strange depths of that mysterious ocean. But the more she traced for him the more it seemed to deepen her disappointment. Still hope flattered her lingering love, cheered her, and brightened the star of her future. Hope came to cheer the heart that had longed for relief so lovingly, that had begun to yield to the stormy forebodings which hope deferred oppresses the soul with.
Notwithstanding all this, fear at times seemed to get the better of her resolution. How she had watched and waited, and yet there was no tidings of his coming.
Was Tite lost? If so, how, and where was he lost? Must she give him up as gone forever? Must she give him up, and see him, and hold sweet communion with him, only in her love-dream, among the flowers fancy pictures in the garden of our hopes? Must she forget the idol of her love, transport her affections, yield to her mother's wishes, which were daily becoming more pressing, and marry Mr. Gusher, a man she did not even respect, much less love? In gratifying a mother's ambition she might, perhaps, make her own life wretched. If Tite was lost, what was to become of his aged parents, Hanz and Angeline? Their welfare seemed to concern her even more deeply than that of her own parents. Hanz had found means of communicating with her, had made her acquainted with all his troubles, and now the day set for a hearing of his case was near at hand.
Mattie knew nothing really bad of Mr. Gusher. He had seemed to her one of those uncertain characters whofloat about on the surface of society without having any fixed position in it, who have no legitimate occupation, depend on chance for everything, and lead an artificial life generally. Such men, it had seemed to her, were poor companions to sail down the stormy sea of life with. In Tite she saw something real, good, substantial; one of those young men who prosper and build up their own fortunes and future, because they apply themselves steadily and energetically to the legitimate pursuits of life.
The door opened suddenly, and Mattie's reverie was interrupted by her mother, whose portly figure quite filled the space, for, in truth, the lady had enlarged her hip circumference with an unpardonable amount of padding. Mrs. Chapman expected distinguished company that day, and had arrayed herself in a tantalizing amount of finery. For the first time, too, she had put her hair up in puffs, which was the fashion of the day in Bowling Green. Indeed the lady flattered herself that there was nothing in Bowling Green that could excel her in the magnificence of her upholstery.
"Expecting company to-day, very distinguished company, too," said Mrs. Chapman, advancing and bowing her head oppressively, "and how very annoying not to be dressed as one wants to be." After viewing herself in the glass for several minutes, turning first one side and then the other, viewing and reviewing her skirts, and training her puffs into more exact platoon, she turned to Mattie, and resumed, "Now tell me, my daughter, how do my skirts hang? Does my dress become me? Do puffs become me? You see my face is a little broad—puffs will, I am afraid, make it look disadvantageously broad. Tell me now, my daughter, am I presentable?" Mrs. Chapman waitedwith an air of self-admiration for a reply. "You have such good taste in such matters, my daughter;" she concluded.
"Why, mother," replied Mattie, smiling and viewing her mother from head to foot, "how very worldly you are getting, and so vain. Never saw you look better—and so young."
"I appreciate the compliment, my daughter," returned Mrs. Chapman, dropping a bow and a courtesy. "A woman of my complexion may be excused for refusing to get old."
"I was only joking," resumed Mattie, laughing heartily. "My dear mother takes everything so serious—"
"Come, come," interrupted Mrs. Chapman, her face coloring, "does my dress become me? Am I presentable?"
"You are elegance itself, my dear mother, and would be presentable anywhere," returned Mattie, with a merry twinkle of the eye.
"That's what I wanted to know," said Mrs. Chapman with a bow, and a slight motion backward. "And now, my daughter," she resumed quickly, "this is a good time for having a very serious talk on a very important, but very different matter. What we were talking about yesterday, you know. I hope you have made up your mind to banish Toodleburg." Mrs. Chapman drew herself up into a stately attitude, and assumed a look of uncommon severity. "You know how much your parents dote on you, my daughter, and how much depends on you to give the family a firm standing." The lady tossed her head haughtily and pretentiously. Mattie remained silent and thoughtful.
"Toodleburg's at the bottom of the sea—that's my opinion. And if he stays there it wouldn't distress me—it wouldn't," resumed Mrs. Chapman, giving way to her temper and becoming more earnest. Just then tears gushed into Mattie's eyes, and as they coursed down her cheeks told the tale of her sorrow.
"What I said was intended for good advice, my daughter, not to wound your feelings," continued Mrs. Chapman. "Even if the young man should not be at the bottom of the sea, we should never be presentable with him attached to the family—never in the world. Such a name, and such common people for parents! What would Bowling Green say, my daughter? We must all yield to the force of circumstances; and the circumstances are all against this Mr. Toodleburg tumbling himself into our family." She paused suddenly, and again viewed her ponderous figure in the glass, now adjusting one side of her skirts and then the other. "I wonder if this dress really does become me? Green and orange are in harmony with a complexion like mine," she said, turning to Mattie, and waiting for a reply. But Mattie was trying to relieve her feelings of the grief that was filling her eyes with tears.
"To return to what I was saying, my daughter, sentimental marriages, I was going to say, (well, I will say it,) are fools' marriages. Yes, they are. Your father understands that. Never would have got him—never in this world—if I had been given to sentimental love. Toodleburg's a good enough young man in his place—but he's never, never coming back, my daughter. But even if he was to come back, there's no place for him in our family. View these things, always do, through the eye of philosophy—I do." Mrs. Chapman againpaused, bowed her head admonishingly, and extended her fat, waxy hands. Mattie still remained silent.
"After all the polishing you have had, my daughter, to let your mind run to such an unpolished young man. Drag a family down when a family is going up, and there's the end of that family—with society I mean." Mrs. Chapman tossed her head, and again returned to the mirror, saying as she viewed herself in it: "Drag a low bred fellow into a well bred family, I repeat, and down that family goes."
"Well, well, my dear mother shall have it all her own way," replied Mattie, cheering up and assuming an air of indifference. "Anything to relieve your anxiety, my dear mother. How nice it would be to have a husband you admire so much, and to think that I obeyed your wishes in everything. The fact is I had a very serious talk with Mr. Gusher yesterday—"
"You didn't offend him with your eccentricities, I hope?" Mrs. Chapman interrupted, enquiringly. "Mr. Gusher is such a polished gentleman, and so very sensitive."
"I don't know how sensitive he may be, mother; but I told him just exactly what I thought, as I would have told any one else. I told him how much you admired him, and what a favorite he was generally; and that if I consented to accept him for a husband, it would be solely to accommodate my dear mother—"
"How very obstinate my daughter is," interposed Mrs. Chapman. "How very distressing to have a daughter always in rebellion."
"I am sure you would not have me flatter Mr. Gusher with a falsehood, mother," resumed Mattie. "I tried to impress him with the fact that I was not good enough for so accomplished a gentleman; but he insisted thatI was, adding that he cared nothing for riches or station. As for loving him, I told him plainly I didn't think I ever could, though there was no knowing what changes time might work in my feelings. I gave him my hand, nevertheless, and told him if he took me it must be with the consequences."
Mr. Napoleon Bowles announced visitors, and this put an end to the conversation. The reader must know that this was not a voluntary yielding on the part of Mattie to the wishes of her mother. She only adopted this course as part of a plan by which she hoped to gain time, during which Tite might return, and thus afford her the means of averting a dilemma into which her mother was forcing her.
It was not to be expected that so pushing a woman as Mrs. Chapman would be turned from the object she had set her heart on by the interposition of ordinary obstacles. She had taken good care to have the engagement pretty well trumpeted over Bowling Green; and in less than three months from the time what is described in the foregoing chapter occurred, the lady had a day fixed for the wedding ceremony, which, she declared should be on such a scale of magnificence as would astonish all New York, to say nothing of West Bowling Green. And now she was distracting her wits, and the wits of her friends, over what she called the preliminaries extraordinary. Weddings, the lady said, must be illuminated according to the position of the family. And to that end an additional amount of elegant furniture was got for the house, a new carriage was ordered, and Mr. Napoleon Bowles was to appear in a new livery, with top boots. Nor was the family finery to be neglected, for at least a dozen dressmakers had been employed for a month plying their needles. In short, this great coming event in the history of the Chapman family had afforded Bowling Green enough to talk about for a month.
The lady's meek looking little husband pleaded in vain for economy; suggested in vain his almost empty pocket. "A quiet family wedding, my dear, with a few honest-hearted friends invited, will be so much better, you know;" he would say, submissively. "Youknow what nice quiet weddings we used to have at Dogtown, and how cheap they were."
"Don't mention Dogtown, my dear; pray don't, my darling," the lady would reply, a curl of contempt on her lips. "We live in New York, now. I wish we had never known Dogtown—only common people marry in that way in New York. Never bring Dogtown into the house again, my darling."
"Have it all your own way, my dear," Chapman would conclude, knowing there was nothing for him to do but surrender submissively.
St. Paul's Church was to be decorated with flowers, for the young people were to be married there, surrounded by gay and admiring friends, who were to make the picture bright and sunny with their smiles and congratulations. And there was to be a grand reception and a sumptuous supper at the house; and the happiness of bride and bridegroom was to be drunk in sparkling wine; and music and dancing was to animate the soul and add charms to their joy-dream.
Mrs. Chapman, I may add here, had a great weakness for distinctions. She had cards printed in gold, in blue, and in red. Such as received cards printed in gold were to consider themselves particularly honored. In short, she divided her guests into three classes—select friends, friends, and acquaintances, and sent them cards accordingly. This manner of distinguishing between guests got the lady into a deal of trouble, and gave rise to much ill-feeling between those who held cards printed in gold and those holding ordinary red ones. Beau Pinks had been honored with a card printed in gold, which he said was a proof of the high esteem he was held in by the lady. In truth, the Beau took great pride in showing this card to the best BowlingGreen society, and, with a suggestive nod of the head, saying he had got his best clothes ready, and was waiting to put in an appearance. Mrs. Chapman had always regarded Pinks as a valuable capture, and if he came to the wedding, why, that would in part be gaining the advantage she desired, and in a measure pay off the old score she had against a few of these nice old Bowling Green people.
It must be said to Pinks' credit that he never declined an invitation to a wedding, and rarely missed a chance to mourn at a friend's funeral.
And while Mrs. Chapman seemed to think of nothing else, and talk of nothing else but this great coming event, Chapman had been noticed to wear a more serious look than usual, and indeed to be in a more thoughtful mood. Indeed it was evident there was something on his mind causing him deep anxiety, even distress. It was noticed, too, that he had for several days gone to business earlier than usual and returned later. And when Mrs. Chapman requested an explanation, he would reply by saying: "Matters at the counting-house require examining into, my dear." In truth, the financial affairs of the great Kidd Discovery Company had begun to exhibit those infirmities which are a sure sign of speedy wreck.
And now the day was come when Mattie was to be married to Mr. Gusher. It was three years to-day since Tite bid her good-bye and sailed on his voyage, and it was to be her wedding-day. How strange the changed scene seemed to her.
It was one of those soft and balmy mornings in May, when nature seems to enchant us, and hold sweet communion with us through all her beauties. There was not a ripple on the water; white sails dotted the calmsurface of the bay, which seemed like a silvery lake quietly sleeping in the embrace of pretty green hills, softened by the golden gleams of the rising sun. The trees were in blossom; birds were filling the air with delicious melody, but not a leaf stirred.
The Chapman family were up before the sun that morning, and the whole house was astir ere Bowling Green had fairly waked up, or the din of Broadway had broken the stillness. Chapman had spent a restless night, and seemed sad and downcast, as if some trouble he would fain conceal was weighing on his mind. He breakfasted alone that morning, and went to business an hour earlier than usual, promising to return at one o'clock. He returned, however, at twelve, and in such a state of distress as to alarm the whole house. Indeed he entered the house more like a madman than a philosopher, and so alarmed Bowles by the wildness of his manner and appearance, that he proceeded in a state of great excitement to inform his mistress. When, then, that lady entered the parlor she found her husband stretched on the sofa, with his right hand pressing his forehead, and apparently in a state of great distress. To her repeated enquiries as to what produced this great distress, he would only answer by shaking his head and giving vent to the most pitiful groans.
The lady could not fail to see that some great misfortune had overtaken her husband—something that might blast the dream of her golden future.
"I hope, my dear, it is nothing that will interfere with the wedding to-day?" she enquired, her face already beginning to give out signs of alarm.
Chapman made no reply, but got quickly up from the sofa and paced the room hurriedly, his hair tossed in to disorder, and in a state of frenzy.
After pacing up and down the room in this manner for two or three minutes, which seemed like hours to Mrs. Chapman, who had kept her eyes fixed on his every movement, he approached the lady, and with a wild stare, muttered rather than spoke: "A funeral, funeral, my dear—not a wedding to-day." Chapman pressed his hands to his head again, and wept like a child. "Boundless iniquity," he resumed, "fraud—deception—crime— disgrace—folly—extravagance—disappointment—poverty. What a sham the world is! All, all is gone! No need for a clergyman here to-day. The sheriff will be here in an hour."
"My dear, my dear, do explain yourself, so that I may understand our position;" Mrs. Chapman interposed, her whole system yielding to the force of excitement. "If the trouble is only of a transient nature, we may still give the wedding—"
"Wedding! my dear," interrupted Chapman, wiping the tears from his eyes. "There can be no wedding in this house to-day, for Gusher has turned out an impostor, and is in prison—." Before he had time to say any more, the lady threw up her arms with an exclamation, shrieked and swooned. Chapman attempted to catch her in his arms as she was falling, but she carried him to the floor under her great weight, and indeed caused him to feel alarmed for his own safety. Fortunately, Bowles entered the parlor just as his mistress fell, and seeing the danger his master was in, ran to his relief, and after extracting him from his perilous position, assisted in getting his mistress safely on the sofa, where restoratives, such as are common where ladies are given to such ills, were applied.
Chapman was indeed a man to be pitied. He had now more than his head and hands full of trouble. Thecare it was now necessary to bestow on his wife (for she was above all else in his mind) in a great measure relieved him of the excitement caused by his great financial misfortunes. When, then, Mattie entered the parlor and found him comparatively calm, she fancied her mother had swooned from over-exertion on her behalf. Taking a seat beside her mother, she kissed and kissed her cheek, and proceeded to bestow upon her those attentions her case demanded, and in so kind and gentle a manner as to show how deep and true was the love she bore her.
Chapman soon relieved Mattie's mind, by telling her all that had happened. As he concluded she grasped his hand firmly and imprinted a kiss on his cheek. "Heaven be thanked, father," she said, "it is a kind Providence that directs all our destinies. I am free now. You are free—free in your intentions—free in your conscience. I am happy now—happy because I shall not have to interpose my oath against yours. You shall know what I mean by that hereafter."
While this was going on up stairs Bowles, his eyes protruding, and in a state of great alarm, entered the kitchen, where Bridget, the cook, and Kitty, the chambermaid were at work, and stammered out: "Der don't be no weddin' in dis house to-day—peers to me—no how. Quid mortibus, portendibus—my missus am most dead."
"To the pots wid yeer latin, ye nager," said Bridget, seizing the tongs and holding them threatingly over his head. "To the pots wid yeer latin, ye nager. Spake so a dacent woman can understand what ye mane." To appease Bridget's wrath and save his head, Bowles condescended to use plain English in describing what had happened up stairs.
"Much good may the faint do the big, auld woman," said Bridget, with an air of indifference. "The divel takes a mighty good care of his own."
"Quid—mortibus—portendibus," repeated Bowles, as Bridget ran to the door with the tongs upraised, causing him to beat a hasty retreat.
"Bad luck to such a nager!" exclaimed Bridget, as Bowles shut the door. "Shure he thinks more about his latin and his livery an he do about his priest."
"Chapman, my dear Chapman, how crushing this all is," the lady whispered, as she began to recover her consciousness. "I feel more dead than alive—I do. Send Bowles out. Do what you can to soften the disappointment. Tell those who come it was all owing to unforeseen circumstances. Oh, my dear daughter," she put her arm around Mattie's neck, drew her to her and kissed her, "how can we look Bowling Green in the face after this? We never shall, and yet your father is a scholar and a gentleman."
Chapman's excitement began to return with his wife's recovery; indeed it soon became her turn to soothe his troubled mind.
"Gusher—the handsome young gentleman—is in prison, eh, and turns out to be—"
"My dear wife," interrupted Chapman, again giving way to his feelings, "he turns out to be Louis Pinto, an impostor. That's the whole of it—except what there may be in this paper." He drew a newspaper from his pocket, and pointing to an article headed: "A Notorious Impostor caught at Last," said: "There, my dear, read that." It gave a very long account, or rather history of the prisoner's exploits in Havana and New Orleans, his operations in New York, financially as well as socially, and indeed all the circumstancesattending his career since he arrived in the city, his connection with the great Kidd Discovery Company, and not forgetting to mention that he was to have been married this day to a lovely and interesting young lady—the daughter of a highly respectable family.
"Have read enough, my dear," said Mrs. Chapman, putting the paper aside quietly. "Smelling salts, the ammonia, my daughter," she whispered to Mattie, and motioned her hand to bring them quickly. "I shall faint again, I am sure I shall."
"Don't let it worry you so much, mother," replied Mattie, as she handed her the phial. "We ought all to be thankful that we have escaped with no worse disgrace. I at least am thankful."
Mrs. Chapman shook her head, but made no reply for several minutes. Then turning to her husband, she pressed her hands to her head and resumed: "My pride is crushed, and my courage all gone, gone, gone. Bigelow Chapman, my dear, when I married you I knew you were intellectually great, and I looked forward to a brilliant future. The house is all dark now."
"Extravagance, my dear, extravagance," said Chapman, shaking his head suggestively. "It is a master that will break down the best of us." Topman and Mrs. Topman have been indulging in extravagance; Gusher has been spending all the money he could get, and all the young men in the office went to doing the same. "And you, my darling—you know you havn't lived—." Chapman was going to say, "so economical."
"But, my dear," rejoined Mrs. Chapman quickly, and evidently inclined to change the conversation: "It was not me who introduced the handsome young gentleman into the house."
"No, my dear—you only encouraged him when he was in," replied Chapman, submissively. "I didn't tell you all, my dear, Topman is a forger, and is not to be found. And, and the worst of it is—and that is what has caused all the trouble—the great Kidd Discovery Company is dead! That's where it is!"
"Dead, my dear, dead!" reiterated the astonished woman. "We call it gone up in Wall Street—"
"Couldn't you contrive some way, my dear, to lighten the disgrace?"
"Wall Street is in a state of excitement, the sheriff is in possession of everything, and beggary stares me in the face—"
This conversation was interrupted by loud ringing of the hall bell, and in another minute Bowles opened the parlor door and the sheriff and one of his deputies entered, and commenced their business. "Beg your pardon," said the sheriff, bowing politely, while his deputy deliberately took a seat and began a survey of everything within sight. "You must excuse any lack of ceremony on our part. It is a part of our duty to do these things, and we try to relieve them as much as possible of their painful features." Then taking Chapman aside, he suggested that the ladies better be got up stairs. And while this was being done the deputy entered the back parlor, and placing his hat on the pier table, began taking an inventory of all the furniture.
"You will find my deputy a gentleman," said the sheriff, addressing Chapman when the ladies had left the parlor, "and if not such a companion as you would prefer, I am compelled to leave him with you, and hope your esteem for him will improve on acquaintance. He will take a schedule of everything, and anything missing thereafter you will be held responsible for." Thussaying, the gentleman bid Chapman a polite good morning, and hurried himself out of the house.
Again the hall bell rang. This time Bowles brought in an unsealed note, grimy and discolored. Chapman immediately recognized it as from Gusher. He carried it up stairs to his dear wife, who read it aloud, for it was addressed to her, and read thus: