CHAPTER I. THE OLD BLOCK-HOUSE.
The day closed, and the moon, which
had been visible in the heavens all the
long day, the pale and pearly-white ghost
of herself, now began to brighten up her
half-shield and lend its silvery radiance
to the earth. The scene upon which she
shone was varied and beautiful, and its
enchantment was heightened by the soft
lustre of her beams and the mysteriously
comingled light and shade. A dark,
transparent river flowed swiftly, and with
many a flashing wave and sparkling ripple,
beneath a double arched bridge that
spanned its banks, uniting a pleasant town
upon one side, with a verdant meadow
on the other: upon which stood a Block-house
and barracks half-buried in a score
of majestic elms that grew upon the level
sward. Close to the base of the old
Block-house flowed past the deep current
of the river winding just below it
gracefully around a point, parting still
farther below to embrace a little green
island.
From the banks of the river on the
east side the shores went up with an
agreeable ascent to a ridge half a mile
distant, wooded with larch and oak, and
over which wound the road which led
from the bridge. On the west side,
clustered about the bridge and climbing
here and there the hill side, was the
pleasant town above alluded to. It was
over-looked by a dark-crested hill, which
with that on the east of the river, enclosed
the village, river, bridge and
Block-house in a narrow but picturesque
valley, about a mile wide.
The river, after passing the Block-house
and the village, made a bold course
a mile below, wheeling around a rock
known as `The Half-way-rock,' and
which presented not only a striking appearance
from insulated position at the
extremity of a low beach, but from the
the resemblance of its outline when viewed
from up the river, to a human head.
Now, in the moonlight, seen from the
Block-house, it looked like a loaded barge
coming round the point. A mile below
this rock glimpses of the white fronts
and gleaming roofs of another village
could be seen, the gilded vane of its
church kindled by the moonbeams to the
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brightness of sunny gold, and looking
like a light upon the land.
The river was without bark or boat in
motion; but at one of the small piers of
the town lay three or four vessels, dark
and motionless; and at a little wharf just
below the Block-house was firmly secured
a small schooner with a swallow-tailed
stern; but her sails were furled,
and there seemed to be no one on board,
though a large newfoundland dog was
pacing up and down the deck with a regularity
and gravity that had evidently
been copied from the skipper, his master,
in his watches.
It was a summer's night and the air
was soft and pleasant, and their was just
wind enough in motion to cool the atmosphere.
The whippor-will uttered his
lonely cry from the covert of a willow
that grew near the Block-house, and over
the water the speckled night-hawk on arrowy
wing darted after the sparkling fire-fly.
With a deep, sonorous, but pleasing
murmur came to the ear the sound of the
rapids a mile above the bridge, the foaming
wreaths which were constantly borne
past on the surface of the dark river.
The Block-house was untenanted, and
stood solitary and deserted amid the
scene. The oaken shutters of its windows
were in many cases unhinged, and
grass grew in the loop-holes and crevices
of the logs. It was one of those early
structures erected by the pioneers of the
wilderness, both for the purpose of defence
and trade. It was an eight-sided
house, elevated ten feet from the ground,
upon a square base of hewn logs, strongly
secured, and enclosing a space which
had no inlet from the ground, but was
entered by a trap-door from the floor
above. This enclosure was perfectly
dark, and was used to hold stores and
amunition. The Block-house proper was
so much larger than the square of hewn
imber which raised it so far from the
ground, thal it projected six or seven feet
beyond its walls on every side, leaving a
broad shelter underneath from sun and
rain. The only access to this upper portion
of the edifice was by a ladder which
was let down as persons wished to ascend,
and drawn up after them. It had
only one door and several small windows,
and on every side was perforated with
loop-holes for muskets. The roof went
up into a point in the centre, and was
ornamented by an arrow which had once
been gilt, but was now nearly black with
time and weather.
The situation of this structure was
very pleasant, being upon a perfectly
level green, and opposite the village, with
an agreeable prospect down the river.
About forty yards in its rear east was a
second building, constructed of hewn
timber, with thick walls, two stories in
height, and about sixty feet in length.
This had been erected fifty years before,
when the Block-house was built as quarters
for a detachment of soldiers which
were for some time stationed here to
protect the settlers against the Indians
and guard the river against the excursions
of the English and Indian from the
Canadas.
But it and the Block-house afterwards
fell into the hands of four traders who
occupied it for some time, and more than
once successfully defended it against the
attacks of Indians, who tempted with the
hope of plunder, combined together for
its capture.
But the soldier, the Indian, and the
trader had passed away and the valley
of the river smiled with harvests and the
dwellings of civilized life. The old Block-house
nevertheless remained a relic of
the early times of the country, and seemed
to stand among the modern abodes
that surrounded it, like the old warrior-patriarch
of the land.
Although it could be converted to no
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use, the townsmen still let it stand,
reverencing it for the memory of the
Past; but the barrack-edifiee which embraced
all the conveniences of a dwelling-nouse
in its structure, came into the
hands of a stout old sea-captain who had
cast anchor there for life, after enduring
the storms and safely passing through the
perils of a long and honorable, and
withal prosperous sea-life.
The old barrack, though still something
severe in its aspect, from the massive
timber that composed its walls, had
nevertheless lost much of its war-like
exterior. It could be seen, even by the
moonlight, that the hand of taste had
been at work to cover and beautify its
rough exterior. It had been white-washed,
and shone like snow through the
trees as the moon in glimpses amid the
foliage of the old elms was reflected from
its front; and a little yard had been enclosed
by a low white palnig, and flowers
were cultivated in it; and woodbine,
honey-suckle, and the graceful vine of
the mountain wreath had been laught to
climb up the sides of the door and creep
a-top of the windows, and to form a
pretty net-work of tendrils and leaves, by
means of guiding twine, over half its
front wall. On each side of the door-step
was a small vase, one containing a
geranium in full bloom, the other gorgeously
laden with an hydranger.
It was very clear that there was some
body else an inmate of the barrack besides
the hardy, rich old sea-captain. But
we will not anticipate our story.
The moon had not been shining upon
the steep, coffee-pot-like roof of the Block-house
more than half an hour, leaving
one half of its walls in deep shadow,
when the sharp out-line of the shadow at
one angle was broken by another shadow,
which was plainly in motion and
seemed to be projected from that of the
building. At first it was difficult to tell
what cast this new shadow, whether a
human being or some one of the kine
that loved to lie about the Block-house,
around which they had all day cropped
the rich grass.
But the shadow, which at first advanced
slowly and with an uncertain
movement, at length was fully defined
and proved to be that of a human being.
No one, however, was as yet visible, for
the angle of the Block-house concealed
the person, whoever he was, and who
had evidently just gained the top of the
bank from the shore, and was now stooping
as he advanced to the covert of the
building. The shadow was at length lost
in that of the Block-house, and the next
moment a man appeared in the moon
lighted space that lay between it and the
barrack. He looked cautiously about
him, and listened like one who fears he
may be noticed and would escape observation.
As he turns his face towards the river,
he discovers the dark skin and flat features
of an African; a discovery which
the outline of his figure as seen in the
shadow had very clearly promised. He
was a short, bow-legged negro, with a
broad back, very long and loosely set
arms, and enormous feet projecting at the
heel more than is usual with his race.
He had on his head an old tarpaulin hat,
wore a patched sailor's jacket, and a pair
of breeches too large for his limbs. His
legs, from his knees, were encased in
long red stockings, and his feet were
thrust into an old pair of white-topped
boots, not a little soiled with age and
weather.
His age could not have been more
than two and twenty, his features were
large, expressive of good nature, and
contented ignorance. Upon his back he
bore a bag filled with some weight, beneath
which he had staggered, and which
had caused the erratic motion, and
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mystery of outline observable in his shadow.
He now set the sack down at his feet,
and taking a long breath, said, as he
looked about him:
`Dis am berry hard work for you Cæ
sar, berry hard dis warm night. Berry
steep bank dis ribber hab, berry much
so. Dare de house ob massa cap'n ober
dere, coz dis be de house on top ob anoder
house, jiss as massa Archy 'scribe
hime partickerly to dis nigger. He say,
you come to a big rock, and hab face
like man. I come to im rock, and see
him face sure enuff, jiss like a man wid
a nose on him head—it like to scare dis
nigger, but I keeps dark and ses notin,
and den pulls over to de oder side ob de
ribber, jiss as massa Archy d'rect. Wall
I mos up by,m by, comes to a leetle island,
and I goes 'tween dat and de shore
and den I passes a leetle pint wid an oak
dippin' in der water, and den I sees de
Block-house up on de bank jiss b'low de
bridge, jiss precise as massa Archy say.
Den I ties my skiff and takes my bag ob
orange on my back, and climbs de berry
steep bank, and sure enuff, here I sees de
Brock-house settin' right on top ob anoder
house, cny de top house mos' biggest.
Dat am massa cap'n's house ober across
de green, coz it answer perfect de scription
Archy gib me. I hopes massa
cap'n 'll gib dis nigger a horn ob grog,
coz it sich a berry warm night. What
roar noise dat? It sound like em airthquake
in de West Indyz.' he cried looking
round somewhat startled, as a stronger
current of air bore to his ear a louder
reverberation of the rapids above. `Hear
dat bird keep gwain tellin me to whip
poor Will. Dis nigger hab someting else
to do, massa bird. Who dare? Dat be
somebody comin' dis way Massa Archy
tell me say noting to nobody, but jiss
leave de oranges wid miss—no—wid
massa cap'n, though I know de is for de
young lady, and den go away agen tellin
nothin to nobody as 'quires.'
`Hulloah! who are you there? Stop,'
cried a person who had issued from the
bridge a few moments previous, and had
began to approach the block-house, with
an uncertain step, as if he hardly knew
whether to advance or not; but as he got
nigher, and discovered the negro, and
saw him hurriedly about to take up his
bag and retreat, he quickened his pace
and called to him.
Cæsar would have continued on towards
the barrack with his sack once
more slung across his shoulder, but the
imperative tone and rapid step of the
other led him to stop, and see what was
wanted with him.
What are you doing here?' demanded
the young man, for he was not more
than two or three-and-twenty, coming
close to him, and looking him in the face
steadily and scrutinizingly.
`I'm ony takin' a walk, massa, by dis
ere pleasant moonlight night. It berry
pleasant.'
`What is your name?'
`Dat am berry ticklar kestion, massa,'
replied Cesar, laughing good naturedly;
`berry much so.'
`I need not ask: you are the person I
began to suspect. I know who you are.
I thought I would know that figure anywhere:
I am not mistaken. Where is
your master?' he added in an under tone,
`Who would have thought of meeting
this fellow here!'
`Cesar did not altogether like the manner
nor the questions of the stranger,
and when he said that he knew him, and
then asked in a fierce tone after his
young master, he began to put himself
on his guard, and to eye him suspiciously;
for the features of the new comer
were disguised by a handkerchief, tied
high above his chin and collar, and the
low drooping of the visor to his cap.
He looked like a person who did not wish
to be recognized. He was tall and of
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good figure, and wore a shabby undress
military coat, blue infantry pants with a
white stripe down the leg, and at his belt
hung an empty sheath, the sword being
carried in his hand. This military costume
did not surprise or alarm the negro,
for the three year's war with England
was just drawing to a close, and the
roads everywhere were thronged with
discharged soldiers returning to their
homes; and so the military costume in
the towns as the plainer coat of the citizen.
`He know me, he say,' thought Cesar,
as he tried to get a sight at his features,
which the young man seemed to endeavor
to hide from him by turning his face
from the light; `I hab hear dat voice
afore, and for de life ob me I disremembers
where. It mont be in New Orleans
or Boston, or de West Ingee. But it
somewhere, sure; and I know if I hab
seen him afore, it wont on a pleasant occasion,
coz I kind ob feel it want, tho'
I doesn't know xactly when nor where
'twas. But he sure be massa Archy's
enemy, I tell dat by de way he ax ater
him.
`You have'nt answered me? Where
is your master or whatever he is to you,
Archer Worthington?' repeated the soldier,
in a peremptory tone. `Is he in
this country? Has he returned?'
`Well, I don't know who dis gemman
is dat axes so many kestions,' answered
Cesar, moving on, and so I begs to be excuse
from answerin' them. Dese is war
times, and folk cant be too ticklar who
dey talk wid.'
With these words he moved on across
de green. The young man advanced a
step or two, and placing himself before
him, said sternly.
`Tell me whither you are going?'
`Massa, dis free country, for nigger
walk where he choose,' answered Cesar,
very resolutely, and with a something in
his tone that showed the stranger that it
would not be safe to rouse his anger.
`Cesar,' he said suddenly changing his
tone, `I am a friend to your master, his
particular friend? Seeing you here
shows me that he has returned, and I
am anxious to see him again, after his
long absence. You ought to treat a friend
and townsman of your master's more civilly.
'
`How you know I belong massa Archy?
I nebber here afore? Where you
see me?'
`Where did I ever see you?' repeated
the young man with some embarrassment,
like guilty hesitation.
`Yes, massa.'
`Well, I dare say, I have seen you
often before. Oh, it was in the South, I
think. But, no matter. What have you
in that sack?'
`Oranges.'
`And what are you going to do with
them?'
`Massa, jiss show me your face and
eyes, and den, may be I tell you,' answered
Cesar, in a tone as if he didn't
like the way he was interrogated. `Indeed
his liveliest suspicions in reference
to the stranger were roused, and he made
up his mind that, whoever he was, he
was an enemy; and should, therefore,
get nothing out of him.
`You are going to that house!' said
the man, pointing emphatically to the barrack,
in one of the lower windows of
which a candle shone through the leaves
of the mountain wreath that trelliced the
window.
`I may go dar, and I may go odder
whar,' answered Cesar. `Massa, please
step out ob de way? coz people gets into
diffikilties sometimes dat stands in
oder people's way; and in dis case dis
nigger no be sponsible for consequences.'
`Very well, I'll remember you,' answered
the young man, evidently
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suppressing his anger, and fearing to rouse
the negro, whom he saw loosen a knife,
stuck in a leather strap that hung at his
waist. `Do you know who lives in that
house?' he added, as he stepped aside.
`I'll ax em when I gets to de door,'
responded Cesar, moving on direct for
the dwelling of the rich old sea-captain.
The stranger stood and watched him,
and saw him enter the little passage across
the flower garden to the door, and knock
at it. He saw a person—a female, whose
face, seen by the moonlight, was fair and
youthful, come to the the door, and beheld
the negro place in her hand a note.
He knew it was a note, for it shone white
in the moon beams, as she took it. He
heard an expression of joy, as it seemed
to him, from her; and the negro with his
sack was received into the house, and the
door closed.
`Fiends crush this Archer Worthington!
' he muttered fiercely through
his clenched teeth as he witnessed
all this. `There is no doubt that he
has returned—he and this infernal
faithful negro with him, who, I wish, was
in the bottom of the sea, ere I had ever
met him. But he has not recognised me
in my beard and mustache, and careful
concealment of my features and voice.
How strange that I should have met him
of all others here to-night on this very
spot. When I was crossing the bridge I
saw the fellow land cautiously and noiselessly,
as if he was at some mischief, and
so excited my suspicions; and as he gained
the block-house, even at the distance
I was, I thought I recognised in his figure
that of one familiar to me. And so it
proved. His master must be in the country,
and escaped after all. If so, then I
am defeated on all sides. But I will not
give up the fair Blanche as lost. She
loves Worthington. That was clear to
me from the first. and I have just had
proof of it in the delighted exclamation
that escaped her when she took the letter
from the negro, and recognized by moonlight
the handwriting. This shows she is
familiar with it. I will wait and see this
negro when he comes out, and he shall
let me know whether Worthington has
returned, or I will have his black heart
out.'
With this determination the young man
drew back into the shadow of the projecting
story of the Block-house, and
there paced to and fro watching the house
across the green like a wolf in an ambush.
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CHAPTER II. THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER.
[figure description] Page 011.[end figure description]
Before we follow Cesar into the old
barrack with his bag of oranges, we will
introduce the reader into the little parlour,
and unfold to him what was passing
in the domestic circle, previous to his
knock at the door.
Old Captain Talbot had sat that evening
in his door, in his leathern arm-chair,
to see the sunset, and to smoke his evening
after-tea pipe, according to his invariable
custom every day. As the sun
set, he looked at his barometer which
hung up on one side of the door, and
then glanced at his thermometer which
was suspended on the other side; he
then pulled forth his great old English
silver watch and looked at that, and then
made a brief seaman-like survey of the
heavens, overhead and all round, as far
as the roof of the house would let his
vision extend.
`A fine day to-morrow, girl! Barometer
indicates fair, and the thermometer
is just at 78 deg. where it was last evening
at this hour; and this steadiness is a
sure sign of a fine day to come! The
wind is to the south west, about two and
a half knots,' he added, holding up the
back of his hand to catch the air, and
then looking at the weather-cock on the
top of the Block-house in front of him.—
`We will have a brave day for our
fishing trip down to half-way rock, so
have all ready to start bright and early,
by eight bells at the latest.'
This was said to a young girl about
nineteen years of age, with the most perfect
face and figure poet ever immortalised
in verse, or artist ever limned on
canvass. Her eyes were a deep, celesial
blue, the pure cloudless violet tent,
that always indicates a sweet temper and
generous heart. Her brow was open
and fair as the lily, and her sweet lips
were richer in tint than the crimson
coral of the Moorish seas. Her eyes
were not merely beautiful for their exquisite
blue colour, but they were expressive
of tenderness and feeling, and
yet sparkled with the love of mirth, and
the light of joy.
She was standing in the door, just behind
her father, looking through his spy-glass
down the river, as if she were expecting
to discover some very interesting
object.
`Every thing is ready, father,' she
answered; `but I fear you will find me
a dull fisher to-morrow.'
`I'll teach you, girl. I'll make a
sailor of you, yet. You can reef and
steer my sail-boat now as well as I can,
and better too, for that matter, for I am
hauled into dock and out of repair. But
what do you see below? You seem to
have discovered a sail or some craft or
other? You have been on the look out
all this afternoon! What do you see,
hey?'
`Nothing, father.'
`Well, let us go in! The sun is now
fairly down, and my pipe is smoked out.
This evening air makes me think o' the
rheumatiz.'
Thus speaking, the old sea-captain
rose up, and leaning on the ready arm of
his fair child, returned into the parlour
and took a seat by the window, upon a
well-stuffed easy chair. The daughter
placed a cricket embroidered with her
own fingers for his gouty foot, and then
placed in his hand a little note-book,
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which he called his log, and in which he
daily chronicled the winds and weather,
the rise and fall of the mercury in his
thermometer, and the state of his barometer.
He now proceeded to make the
usual record upon a leaf which had been
ingeniously attached to the arm of his
chair, to serve in place of a writing desk.
Leaving him making his record, his
daughter went to the tea-table, where sat
a maiden aunt, the sister of the captain,
washing the tea cups and silver spoons,
for the good lady was the house-keeper, and mother—in kindness and love—to
her beautiful niece.
`Aunt, shall I help you?' she asked in
a kind tone.
`No, dear child! I have almost got
through.'
`Then I believe I will just run across
the bridge to the Post-office. I heard
the post-horn full five minutes ago.'
`Five minutes, dear. It has then
hardly got into the village, much more
the mail opened. How very anxious
you are to get letters the last week.—
One would think your father or I was
absent, and you were expecting to hear
from us. Those are your scissors, dear,
that you are snuffing the candle with, instead
of the snuffers.'
`Dear me. How careless I am!' said
the laughing, blushing girl, for she had
a rich colour in her cheeks all the while
her aunt was speaking. `You know,
aunt, the war is over, and one would like
to know about the news of peace.'
`That we shall get in good time.'
`There, this is the fourth day the wind
has been S.S.W. at sunset! Never saw
it so steady from one point in the latitude
before. Sign of settled weather!
There is my day's work done up! Here,
Blanche.'
The maiden hastened to receive the
`log-book' and pencil, which she laid
over the mantle-piece upon a small shelf,
put up for the purpose by the captain,
who loved to have every thing as he said,
`ship-shape.'
`What is that you was saying about
the peace, Sarah, hey? I heard you and
Blanche talking.'
`Blanche wanted to go over to the
Post-office, and said she was anxious to
know if peace was accepted.'
`Accepted! Bless my timbers!—
England wont dare for her own sake to
refuse to ratify it. She is sick o' the
war; for she has got more hard knocks
than glory in it. Why she has been
whipped every where on the sea, and
half the time on shore. It has been a
glorious war, and our gallant navy has
gained glory enough for any nation. We
can afford to propose peace. England
will be glad to accept it. She wont look
at the terms. She'll make her ministers
sign without reading. I am glad the war
is over, for we have had fighting enough,
but it has done one good thing for us, it
has shown John Bull that our success in
the revolution wasn't by accident; for
two accidents don't usually happen alike.
After this, our flag will be respected, and
I guess it will be a long time before a
King's ship presses another American
citizen. Have you put my spy-glass into
the beckets in the companion-way,
Blanche?'
`Yes, father,' answered the maiden,
who was standing in the outer door of the
front entry, which the old seaman called
the companion-way.
`You'll take cold, Blanche, out there!'
`No, father. It is a lovely evening.
The moon is beginning to shine as if a
silver shower was falling.'
`Sixpences or Spanish mills, girl,'
said the captain, laughing heartily.—
`Well, you are right; when the air is
clear and the moon is full, I've seen it
look in the Southern latitude as if the atmosphere
was full of silver dust. But
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there is dew on the moon-beams, dear
Blanche. Take care of your health when
you are young, and you will not need to
be taken care of when you are old.—
Where is Nep?'
`He went down on board the Chebec
with Jack,' answered his sister, as she
placed the shining tea-spoons in a silver
cream-pot by her left hand, not omitting,
from habit, to count them first to see that
none were missing.
`Did you tell Jack about the bait and
demijohn, and to put into the cuddy the
things in the basket?' asked the captain.
`Yes. All will be ready, brother, as
you ordered.'
`I saw Jack, father, and told him exactly
what to do. He'll be up bright and
early and dig the hait, and bend the sails
and get aboard all that we need.'
`That is right. It is best always to
get every thing ready over-night. I hope
we shall find salmon to-morrow, that you
may have a chance to spear one.'
`I spear a salmon, father?'
`I'll teach you. You can do every
thing else, and why shouldn't you spear
a salmon. What are you putting your
bonnet on for? Where are you steering
now, hey?'
`Just across the bridge, father,' cried
Blanche, as she darted out of the door,
and went tripping across the green; she
had not gone twenty steps before there
came, bounding and barking towards her,
a fine large dog, the same we have seen
an hour and a half afterwards, pacing
the deck of the little shallop at the Block-house
pier, like an old tar on his watch.
`Ah, Nep, so you are always on the
alert to go with your mistress,' she said,
as she patted his noble head and caressed
him. `Your master was asking for
you, just now! Ah, Jack, well have you
obeyed orders?'
`Yes, Miss Blanchy, I has,' answered
an old man-of-wars man, who came roll
ing up after the dog to meet her; and
as he spoke he touched his little, jaunty
tarpaulin with a respectful air. `I've
got the harpoon sharpened, and bent a
lanyard on the grains, and I'm going
over to the village store to get some
sinnet to bend the hooks on with. But,
Miss, the capti'n is fittin' out the little
basky as if we was bound on the Georges
a'ter cod! We ain't going only to fish
in the river, be we?'
`That is all, Jack. But you know
father will have every thing just so. He
says, you know, that there is no knowing
what he might fall in with.'
`Yes, Miss, I ha'nt sailed with the old
gent'lum full and by for the last twenty-six
years not to know his sailin' qualities,
and just how he steers to a quarter of a
pint! If you're wantin' any thing over
on the street, Miss, I'll save you the
trouble!'
`Thank you, Jack, it is but a step, and
I shall be over and back before you get
through with your purchases!'
With these words the maiden tripped
on her way towards the bridge, followed
by Neptune who had to trot to keep up
with her. She soon reached the bridge,
and was half way over it ere the old tar,
who was a heavy sailor, came up with it.
`Bless her pretty little heart! She
sails just like one o' them Baltimore
clipper built craft. What a neat, tight
built, little barky she is. I wonder how
old Captain Tom Talbot, with sich a ugly
figur head as he has o' his own, and
heavily timbered as he is, ever came to
have sich a nice little quarter-boat as
this Miss Blanche. She has eyes as
blue as the sea off-soundings, and there
is always a smile for old Jack sparklin'
in em. God bless her and give her a
safe voyage through this world into the
anchoring ground above. If she han't
got clear over the bridge out o' sight
while I've only got abeam o' the toll-house
here.'
-- 014 --
[figure description] Page 014.[end figure description]
Jack kept on his way at his best pace
and, as she said, he had even not got to
the other side before she met him, holding
in her hands two or three newspapers.
He saw at once that she looked disappointed,
as if her errand, whatever it
was, had been unsuccessful.
`Jack,' she said, touching him upon
the shoulder, look sharply down the
river!'
`Well, I is, Miss Blanche. What do
you want me to see?' answered Jack,
leaning over the bridge railing, and
looking as she directed.
`Can you see any thing like a boat?'
`Nothing in sight, Miss, this side the
Half-way Rock.'
`Well, I hope for the best! Come,
Neptune!' said the young girl, hastening
on over the bridge. `If he has not written
he will certainly come! I will trust
to that! But it is so late he can't be
here to night. Come, Neptune!' she
added to her dog, as two men passed
her on the bridge. The dog came up
and walked between her and the men,
erecting his head and carrying himself
with a menacing and proud look of protection.
The men passed on, one merely
remarking to the other,
`That is Captain Talbot's handsome
daughter. She needn't be afraid to walk
out evenings with that dog of her father's.
I'd as lief have a lion come at me!'
Blanche hastened on, and soon reached
the door in which her aunt stood waiting
for her.
`No letters Aunt,' she said, forgetting
herself, and speaking out what was upper-most
in her thoughts.
`And who did you expect a letter
from, Blanche? There is some mystery
going on, dear, I fear!'
`You shall know all in good time,
Aunt,' answered Blanche, in a voice that
seemed to be tremulous with anticipated
happiness.
Well, dear, I will wait your own
time! Who was that who spoke to you
on the bridge?'
`It was only Jack, Aunt. He has
gone to the street to make some purchase
for to-morrow. Dear me! I really believe
you think I have a lover hid away
some where!' she said, laughing.
`No, no! I don't think so! You
know for that matter all is settled by
your father's promise to the two young
men. How singular it is we have not
heard from either of them since they
went away to the war, now three years
ago! Well your time will be up in a
month, dear!'
`Yes, Aunt!' answered the maiden,
dropping her eyes, and appearing a little
confused, but rather with sweet pleasure
than otherwise. `There comes Jack
back again!'
`I am waiting to see him. Have you
got the newspapers in your hands?'
`Yes, Aunt!'
`Well, take them in to the Captain, for
this is just the time he loves to have his
papers read to him. I will give an order
or two to Jack and then come in and
hear the news too.'
Blanche entered the little sitting roam
while her aunt waited till the old sailor
came across the green, when she called
to him, and gave him sundry orders
about household duties, for Jack was the
general serving-man, hostler, boat-steerer,
errand boy, gardener and footman of
the captain's domestic establishment.
At times he even assisted the woman in
the kitchen in cooking dinner, on which
occasions he acquitted himself with no
little credit to himself. Indeed there
were certain sea-dishes which the captain
liked at times to have on his table,
and Jack was always called upon to
cook them, notwithstanding Mistress
Sarah assured her brother that she had
receipts for such dishes and could
-- 015 --
[figure description] Page 015.[end figure description]
prepare them quite as potably as Jack. But
the captain said that there was `a certain
sea taste about Jack's duff, corned
beef and chowders that no shore cooking
by shore folks could get the hang of!'
Jack having now received his orders
from Mistress Martha, took his way down
to the river followed by Nepture, who,
when not attending on Blanche as her
gallant, was the inseperable companion
of the old tar, who had, as he asseverated,
taught him all the ropes in `the
barky' and to stand watch like a christian-man.
The barky in question, towards which
Jack now made his way, was a small
pink-stern shallop of ten tons, belonging
to the captain, and which lay at the
small wooden pier below the block-house.
It was schooner rigged, carried a flying
jib in addition to her jib, and by the captain's
orders Jack had rigged a gaft topsail
aft, and crossed a yard for a fore-topsail;
but the sail, which would not
have been longer than a table-cloth, had
never been bent.
This little vessel which the Captain
had built to suit his own fancy, was accomodated
with a fore-castle just large
enough to hold Jack and Neptune, and a
cabin that four persons might sleep or
dine in very comfortably. The cabin
was neatly furnished with bird's eye
maple pannels and mahogany transum,
fitted up as a side-board with decanters
and tumblers in beckets as in sea-vessels,
though the barky had never smelt salt
water.
There were charts of the river hanging
in the cabin, and overhead was a
tell-tale compass. On deck there was a
binnacle and compass also, though in a
river not four hundred yards wide and
bordered by bold and romantic shores,
the compass was little likely ever to be
called into requisition. But it was the
captain's fancy: he would have it so,
and that was enough.
The name of the barky was `The
Wind-Eater,' a formidable appellation;
and not unmerited by her qualities as a
close sailer. The name was also the
captain's own fancy.
Jack having passed the old Block-house,
giving it a wide berth, for he
faithfully believed it was haunted—he
having heard, as he stoutly maintained,
strange noises coming from it at night,
as nothin on airth but some sinner's
ghost could make!' Jack found, however,
no one to believe him but the captain,
who said that for his part he believed
the old Block-house was more
likely to be haunted than not to be; for
from all accounts about spirits, they
loved to stay about just such places. And
then the captain would remind his incredulous
sister of the tradition that one
trader had murdered another there to
get his money, and that all ghosts walked
about the place where they were murdered
till their deaths were avenged!
This defence of his master confirmed
Jack in his superstitious fear of the old
Block-house. As he now passed it, Neptune
went smelling round it, which quickened
the old tar's apprehensions, and his
pace, which was not a little accelerated
at hearing the dog utter a low howl as
he came away from the building.
Upon reaching the shallop, Jack proceeded
to get things ready for the early
jaunt; and as the moon shone bright, he
could see to work as well as in the day;
and at length having bent on his fish
hooks and got every thing prepared so
that he should have nothing to do in the
morning but bend the sails and get underweigh,
he returned on shore to get his
bai tready, leaving Neptune to keep guard
on the quarter deck. The dog at once
proceeded to pace up and down the deck
with the gravity of Jack himself.
-- 016 --
CHAPTER III. THE NEWSPAPER.
[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]
`Well, Blanche, child, what have you
got from the office?' asked the captain,
as she came into the parlour after leaving
her aunt at the door. `Did my Boston
newspaper come?'
`Yes, father. Here it is, and the
Portland also. Shall I tear off the wrappers?
' she asked, as she took a seat, her
usual seat by his side when she read to
him; for though the captain's eyes were
as sharp as ever, he loved to hear the
sweet voice of his daughter falling upon
his ear. In his opinion Blanche was
the best reader in the world; and aunt
Sarah said the Bible never sounded so
good and holy to her as when Blanche
read aloud, in that low tone of gentle
awe and reverence with which she always
read the sacred volume; for it was
remarked by her father that there was a
change in her voice, somehow for the
better, wherever she read in the Bible.
`Yes, you can read the news to me,
dear. Now the war is about over there
won't be so much as there has been
and it is'nt time yet to hear whether the
treaty of Peace is settled, and sent here
to be ratified by us. We shan't hear
about that for a month or six weeks to
come; though at this season o'the year
ships make short passages. I once
come over in the mouth of June in '99,
when I commanded the barque Constitution,
in eighteen days from the mouth
o'the Thames. The Boston paper first.
I always flnd the latest news in the Sentinel.
Uncle Russel keeps the old
Columbian afioat and better manned
than any other newspaper craft goin'.
We need'nt expect to hear of any more
brave fights at sea, girl. I hope we
shall find out that for his last exploit
they have promoted again that noble
fellow, Archer, who has done himself
and the navy such credit. We shall
hear no more of his exploits now the
fighting is over; though if the war had
lasted three years longer he'd fight his
way up to a Commodore's pennant.
Look and see if you find any thing said
about him under the head of promotions.'
The maiden, with a flushed cheek
and hands slightly trembling, unfolded
the sheet and run her eye over the columns.
She looked a little excited, but
with joy within, as her bright eye wandered
from columnn to column.
`Ah, you have found that they have
promoted him. I see it in the sparkle
of your eye, girl!' said the captain,
laughing.
`Yes, sir,' she answered, with emotion
that would scarcely suffer her to trust to
her voice.
`Read it. Why, dear bless us, the
girl looks as if she was either going to
laugh or cry. What else is there?'
`Nothing, sir, nothing more, dear
father,' she answered, with a smile,
while tears danced in her eyes.
`What the deuce is the matter, hey?'
`I am so pleased, sir, that the young
gentleman whose career, as given by the
newspapers, we have, or you have, taken
such an interest—in—has been, has
been promoted. You know if he has
friends, a mother or sister, how happy it
will make them. That is all that is the
matter with me.'
`Well, you have always right feelings
for every body. Read and let us see
what they have given him.' She then
began to read.
`PROMOTIONS IN THE NAVY.
`We are gratified to learn that the
brave young seaman, William Archer,
who was promoted to a midshipman's
berth for his gallant and daring conduct
-- 017 --
[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]
in leading on the boats, and burning the
English brig, George III., under the
guns of the fort at Halifax, when the
two officers in command of the expedition
had become wounded and disabled,
has been recently advanced to a lieutenancy
for his courage in recapturing the
American gun-brig Washington, after
she had been taken by an English frigate
and anchored under her guns, of which
feat we have already given a full account
in this paper.'
`There. That is justice,' exclaimed
the old man emphatically: `I am as
pleased to hear that now as if he was
my own son. The government have
done just what they ought to have done.
You look as if you were glad, also, girl.'
`I am, father,' answered Blanche,
with emotion.
`Yes, you ought to be; for you and I,
and sister Sarah have taken quite an interest
in this unknown young man since
we first began to read about him in the
papers. Have you heard the news,
Sally?' he asked of his sister, who at
this moment come into the parlour, after
having given her orders to Jack.
`What is it, brother?' she asked, with
interested looks, as she took her knitting
from the drawer of a little table near the
window, and sat down in her low rocking
chair near it to finish a stocking she
had nearly done, `What does the paper
bring new?'
`More about our brave young friend,
William Archer.'
`Then I shall listen with pleasure.
Has he done any thing more to bring
honor upon himself and his country?'
`He has been promoted for his last
exploit in recapturing the gun-brig. I
knew he would be.'
`I am delighted to hear it.'
`I knew you would be. He is made
a lieutenant of.'
`Really, I feel as great pleasure at this
as if I knew him.'
`It would hardly please me more if
he was my own son.'
`Brother, is'nt it strange we have
never heard any thing of—'
`Of whom?' he inquired, as he saw
his sister stop and look as if she had
touched upon a subject she had not best
pursue.
`No matter now. Some other time,'
and she glanced significantly at Blanche.
`Oh, don't mind Blanche,' said the
captain, `for I can guess what you were
going to say, You meant the two lads
who want to get her for a wife one o'
these days. Blanche and I have talked
over the very same thing, how strange it
was we never heard of them since they
left, except the report about Nelson Osborn's
having been dismissed from the
service, but which I could never see confirmed
by the papers. Of Archy Worthington
not a word has come to us.'
`It is very strange, if they are alive,'
observed Aunt Sarah. `Don't you
think so, brother?'
`Yes; for I had hoped that one or the
other would have distinguished themselves
sufficiently for their names to get
into the papers, especially when they had
such a fair prize to strive for as Blanche
here.'
`I thought we should get good news
of young Worthington, at least, he
sfiemed to be such a modest, quiet young
man,' remarked Mistress Sarah, as she
carefully took up a stitch too many that
she had dropped in narrowing; `but I
did not have so much faith in Nelson
Osborne. Still they were both fine
young men when they left here.'
`Yes; but, as you say, there was
more in Worthington to like than in Osborne;
and I dare say Blanche thought
so. But you need not blush, girl. They
have been gone now three years without
distinguishing themselves, and I dare
say they will neither of them trouble
-- 018 --
[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]
you again; and I dare say you don't
care a rope's yarn for either of them.'
Blanche made no reply. She held the
newspaper rather higher before her face
than was absolutely needful; and if any
one had peeped over the top, they would
have seen that she was blushing and
smiling, and looking as if she possessed
some secret of happiness unknown to
her father and aunt, which caused her to
smile and blush so charmingly.
`Come, Blanche, read the deaths and
marriages,' said her aunt, who always
took a particular interest in these items
of news; while her brother, after the war
news was read, cared most for the ship
news and accounts of disasters at sea,
and such like food for a retired old sailor's
mind.
Blanche read over first the marriages
and then the deaths; and as neither
contained names which the Captain was
acquainted with, did not interest him;
and, when she had got through,
he bade her look at the ship news. This
she turned to with more interest than
she had shown in recapitulating the
deaths and marriages; and her eyes running
rapidly over the names of vessels,
lighted on the name of one that arrested
her attention and called up a look of
pleasure. It was simply—
`Sails to-morrow, for the Kennebec,
the regular packet-schooner Augusta,
for Kennebec, with full freight and passengers.
'
Her eyes glanced eagerly at the date,
and then she seemed to be mentally calculsting
something suggested by the announcement.
The Captain for a moment
quietly observed her manner and her
absence of mind, and said—
`What is it, girl?—anything squally,
bey?'
`What, father? Oh! no, sir! Nothing?
I'll read the ship news. How
forgetful I am.'
`Very, Blanche. You've seen something
there that you won't tell. Well,
I won't ask you what it is. You are a
good girl and will tell me all that I
ought to know.'
`It seems to me, brother, that Blanche
has had a secret on her mind for some
days past. There seems to be a something
in her face that shows she knows
more than we do about something or
other, and I should like to know what
it is.'
`I dare say, Sarah—I dare say.—
Never was there a secret yet that a woman
did not want to know what it is,'
he said, laughing. `But let Blanche
alone: she'll keep nothing wrong from
us you may be assured,' he added, as he
saw his daughter's confusion and distress
at this conversation. `You must
not press her too close, sister. Young
girls must always be expected to have
secrets that old folks have no business to
know. Come, Blanche, read.'
Blanche felt very grateful to her father
for these words; for she had indeed a
secret that, for the present, she did not
wish to reveal, knowing the proper time
would soon be at hand. The Captain,
although aware she had something upon
her mind which she carefully kept to
herself, and notwithstanding his own curiosity
to know what it was, he sympathised
with her under her aunt's inquisitiveness,
and, as we have seen, kindly
shielded her.
Blanche, having read the ship news
with a voice somewhat more tremulous
than usual, her father took the paper
from her when she had done, saying affectionately—
`Come, dear, you can go now and
finish the preparations for to-morrow's
excursion. See that you put up a bottle
of that old '99 Madeira I brought home
in my last voyage, and two hottles of
London stout, and tumblers and
-- 019 --
[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]
wine-glasses to match. Don't forget to put
into the busket the Spanish cheese, and
a half-dozen of Boston ship-bread. We
shall all have appetites on the water.—
As for Sally, she can get ready her own
sweet-meats and sweet-cakes, and sandwiches
and such things; and don't forget
the horn, Blanche,' he added as the
young girl left the room with the hurried
step of one glad to retreat; for the very
pointed conversation of her aunt had
greatly confused and embarrassed her;
and she was grateful to her considerate
father for giving her an opportunity to
retire to recover herself, though he had
not the remotest idea what could be the
cause of her emotion.
`Have you noticed how odd Blanche
has been lately, brother?' asked Aunt
Sarah of the Captain.
`I have seen nothing in particular.—
She looks sometimes as it she had a secret
on her mind that was a dozen times
a-day near escaping. That is all I see.'
`And isn't that odd? What secret
can the dear child have? I can't see;
for it seems as though we knew every
thought of her heart. Yet it is certain
she has something she hasn't told us, and
which I think you had best try and get
from her.'
`Not I, sister. Blanche is a good
girl, and discreet, and can safely be trusted.
I am not surprised at young girls
having secrets from old folks, but I wonder
how Blanche has got a secret at all,
living so retired and quiet as she does at
home.'
`Certainly she has no acquaintance
with any young gentlemen, or I might
suspect it was a love affair; for she acts
precisely like it.'
`Does she?' asked the Captain, with
a significant smile; for Aunt Sarah had
never had a beau in her life, and was not
supposed to know much about love affairs.
But what lady will ever resign
her privilege to judge upon such matters,
albeit the tender passion has never
moved her own bosom?
`Now, brother, you are quizzing me;
but seriously I do think Blanche is in
love.'
`Who can it be with. It is all nonsense.
'
`It is true, nevertheless. I see it in
her cheek and in her eyes, and in every
movement. She is in love you may rest
assured,' repeated Mistress Sarah with
emphasis, as she drew her needle to
commence another row.
`It must be with old Jack then, answered
the captain, `for he is the only beau
she has; and to tell you the truth I believe
old Jack is dead in love with her.'
`Why how can you speak so, brother,'
exclaimed his sister, elevating her hands
in amazement.
`Well, it can't be anybody else. I believe
next to you and I, she loves Jack
and Nep. It must be one of us four,
Sally.'
`It can't be with any one in the village.
There is not a young man that
thinks of her, or visits here, she keeps
herself so close at home.'
`Then who can it be?'
`So you are convinced, are you, that
it is some one?'
`Not hardly. I have noticed, not only
the last week more particularly, but all
along for a year or two, that she seemed
to have a secret source of happiness
within herself that she kept from us.'
`Don't you think I have thought I saw
the same thing!' cried aunt Sarah eagerly.
`It is certain, then, if both of us noticed
it; but I have remarked it, brother,
more particularly in the last eight or ten
days.'
`So have I noticed it more.'
`You have. Well, I am glad of it.
Then it isn't my imagination, as you
sometimes say things are?'
-- 020 --
[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]
`But, what have you seen in particular?
'
`Well, that would be hard to tell,
brother. It is more by little things making
up a whole, than any thing very apparent.
But there is one. She seems
to be expecting letters!'
`Did she say so?'
`No, but you see how anxious she has
been about the mails, and running to the
post-office, hardly before it was open.—
To-night too.'
`Perhaps it is only the papers?'
`Then when she gets papers only, why
does she come back with such a disappointed
look?'
`Does she?'
`Why it is just as plain as can be in
her face.'
`Then if she is in love, as you say,
it must be with somebody away. Somebody
who is at a distance.'
`That is clear!' responded aunt Sarah,
as if she had received a new idea.—
`Who can it be?'
`That is more than I can tell. I will
leave it for her to tell me, in good time,
which she will be sure to do.'
`I hope so; but if it was possible one
might think it was one of the two young
men.'
`What! Worthington, and Nelson
Orlorne?'
`Yes.'
`Why do you think so?'
`Well, I do not think so positively.'
`It can't be! They have not been
heard of since they left! They have,
therefore, neither of them distinguished
themselves, or the papers would not
have been silent, and it is now three
years since she saw either of them.—
She doesn't think of them, sister? They
have passed out of her mind, and then
she would not care a fig for them if they
had not done something to win her, according
to the terms that were arranged.
No, not they? It is not either of them,
if they are even living, which I question
very much, or we should have had some
accounts good or bad!'
`If it were either of them that she
could be thinking about, it would be
Archibald Worthington; for before he
and Nelson saved her life, so bravely as
they did, they always as children, seemed
to like each other. But who can it
be?'
`Perhaps it is not any body after all.
It is as likely to be our unknown brave
sailor as any one. We are, no doubt,
only chasing a fog-bank. The best way
will be to leave Blanche to show her
own colours when she gets ready. Here
comes somebody across the green from
the direction of the Block-house. There
are two of them. One has a bag on his
back. The other I can't make out, but
he looks like a soldier.'
Auut Sarah jumped up to look out,
and the same instant Blanche, who had
overheard him as she passed near the
door, came in with the quick, hurried
step, and sparkling eye, of one who looks
for a friend or an expected guest in every
visitor.
`Do you know either, Blanche?' asked
her father.
`No, sir,' she answered, eagerly watching
them.
`They seem to be quarrelling,' cried
aunt Sarah.
`The soldier tried to stop the other,
but he has let him pass on,' said the
captain.
`He is a negro, brother,' exclaimed
his sister. `See how his face glistens
in the moonlight.'
`And he is coming here?' said the
captain. `I wonder what he can be.—
Grace, be ready to go to the door.'
-- 021 --
CHAPTER IV. THE PRESENT.
[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]
The beautiful daughter of the old sea-captain
did not require to be told twice,
to obey the promptings of her own wishes.
He had kindly told her to go to the
door, and see who it was that was coming
with the sack, and to ascertain what
he wanted, before he had disappeared
from the room.
`That girl expects something or somebody,
you may be assured, sister!' said
the Captain. `That eagerness is not for
nothing. Did you see how she flew to
obey me?'
`Does any thing escape my observation,
brother? I could not but help seeing
it! I really hope that an end will
soon be put to this suspense!'
`I hope it won't effect your health,
Sally,' said her brother, laughing. `It
must be a terrible thing for a lady to
have her curiosity thwarted.'
`I will put the question direct to
Blanche, if she doesn't soon tell me the
whole.'
`Perhaps the dear girl has nothing to
tell after all, and we are both heaving the
lead off soundings. But hark! that negro
talks as loud as an old cook I once
had.'
`I wonder what he can want! I'll go
and see, for it might not be safe for
Blanche to be so near a black negro!'
`I never yet saw a negro that was
white, sister. But don't fear! Negroes
are the most harmless people in the
world! But you here in Kennebec don't
see 'em very often, and so look upon
them as some sort of a Johnny Scarcecrow.
'
`I'll see what he wants!' answered
Aunt Sarah rising to go to the door.
Blanche had gone into the entry to see
who the person was approaching the door
her heart bounding with, she knew not
what hopes and fears. She opened the
door at Cæsar's knock, and said on seeing
the black, honest countenance of the
black,—
`Who do you wish to see?'
`Am dis here Cap'n Talbo' house,
missis?' asked Cæsar scraping his foot,
and making his best bow as well as he
could make it for the sack of oranges
upon his back.
`This is Captain Talbot's,' she answered
with that courtesy which never
deserted her, even when addressing the
humblest individual.
`Dis am de place den, Missis, and dis
nigger hab no lost his reckonin'; but I
might hab known it am de place soon as
I see sich a handsum specimens ob beauty
as yoursef, missis, coz it wouldn't be
nobody else as live here but yourself,
sure! You Cap'n Talbo's darter?' he
added after this compliment, looking up
at her in a very mysterious way, and rolling
his eye in a fashion that almost made
her laugh.
`Yes.'
`I know'd it! Den you am de very
bressed one me wishes to see.'
With these words he set down the bag
of oranges upon the step, and taking
from his cap a piece of old sail-cloth, he
unrolled it very carefully, and exposed
the unsullied outside of a note to the expecting,
half-believing, half-doubting
Blanche.
`Dar, young missis,' said Cæsar, after
looking all about him, and even over his
head carefully, to see that he was not
-- 022 --
[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
observed, `dar am a letter leetle bit for
you from Massa Archy, and he —'
`Hush! Don't speak!' she said putting
up her finger before his eyes. `Don't
say you brought one!' she added quickly
as she hid it in her throbbing bosom,
hearing her aunt's step.
`No, missis, I keep dark! Massa
Archy tell me gib you dat, and send de
Cap'n dis bag of oranges, but not to tell
him whar dey come from in tikkilar. I
keep bery dark about de leety bit letter,
missy.'
`Are you Cæsar?'
`Yis, missy, he, he, he! Whoy, how
you know dat?'
`Where is Archibald?'
`Who, missis?'
`Your young master, I mean?'
`I guess he tell himself in de letter!
He tell me say nottin' bout whar he be to
nobody.'
`Hist!'
The door opened and Aunt Sarah made
her appearance. Upon seeing the black
face and broad shoulders of the negro,
she started back a little, as if it was her
duty to appear startled at the sight of a
negro, even though her brother had assured
her that they were very harmless,
good natured beings.
`Dear me! How black he is! Aint
you afraid, Blanche? What does he
want? I really begin to feel alarmed
about you!'
`He says he has brought a sack of
oranges as a present to father.'
`A sack of oranges! Oh, how delightful!
Do you hear, brother?' she cried
to the Captain, for she had left the parlor
door open to secure her retreat from
any perils.
`Yes, tell him to come in! Bring
aim in, Blanche! Whose man is he?'
Blanche did not answer; but Cæsar
as if called upon to be spokesman, lifted
the sack and walked into the room with
Blanche closing it, the outside door after
him, and wondering what the present of
oranges meant; and almost wild with joy
and curiosity to read the letter: for she
had recognized the well known hand of
one with whom she had secretly corresponded
for most of the time since the
war had commenced. Restraining her
impatience, and kissing the letter in the
entry before following her aunt and the
negro in, she proceeded to hear what he
had to say.
The Captain surveyed Cæsar from
head to foot with a keen, inquiring look
and then fixing his eyes full on his face,
he seemed to observe his features as if
he recognized familiar ones; but at last
he shook his head and said,
`No, it can't be! I must be mistaken.
Who are you, my man?'
Cæsar who had been all this while
bowing and smiling with true African politeness,
now drew himself up and answered,
`Me Cæsar, massa Cap'n Talbo'!'
`Captain Talbot, man!'
`Cap'n Talbotty! Me no say him no
better, massa.'
`You are Cæsar, are you? Cæsar
who?'
`Cesar no more dan him!'
`Then we'll have you Ceasar Africanus!
'
`Yis, massa.'
`Well, what do you want with me?
What have you got there, hey?'
`Two hundred and fifty orange, massa.'
`For me?'
`Yis, massn.'
`Who sent 'em?'
`Well, massa, dem is too pertikkeler
kestion,' answered Cesar, twirling his
old tarpaulin about by a piece of spunyarn
which was tied about the crown in
place of a ribbon.
`You can't tell me?'
`I'd rather not, massa. De orange
-- 023 --
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
speak for demsells. Dey sweat as sugarcane.
'
`Where did I ever see you before?'
`Don't know, massa, where I hab dat
honor.'
`It is somewhere. Do you know me?'
`Nebber hab de pleasure ob de recollection
ob your features, massa,' answered
Cesar, looking at him very attentively
and with grave curiosity.
`But I can't take these oranges, my
man.'
`Dey berry nice, ones, massa!' answered
Cesar, untying the mouth of the
bag, and displaying the golden tinted
fruit, the fragrance of which had already
filled the room. `Try him, massa; and
you, old missis;'
`Old? How very uncivil these negroes
are,' thought Mistress Sarah; but
she nevertheless accepted the orange
which Cesar politely handed to her.—
`And you, young Missis, please try him.'
`No doubt they are good; but I don't
like to accept of the fruit without knowing
who they come from,' answered the
captain. `They are not long from the
West Indies, that is plain. Perhaps some
sea-captain. What, my boy?'
`Dey from a friend ob yours, massa,
dat you may be sure.'
`You black rascal,' said the captain,
laughing, `tell me who sent them?'
`The person say if you knew you
might not like to take 'em, so he tell me
not to tell.'
`Then of course I shan't like to take
'em!'
`Take them, brother. It is no doubt
from one who is your warm friend,' said
aunt Sarah, who was very fond of
oranges, and did not wish by any means
that these should be returned merely
from the fact that the donor saw fit to
withhold his name.
`I'll see what Blanche says!'
But Blanche had taken advantage of
the controversy to glide from the room
to the little porch at the back of the
house, and there taking the letter from
her bosom she broke it open and began
to read it by moonlight; for she was
too impatient to light a candle, and this
might have betrayed her to the sharp
eyes of her aunt. So she thought of the
moon, how brightly it shone, and resolved
it should lend her light, as it had,
doubtless, lovers before her day.
The letter began as follows:
`Dearest Blanche, —'
But we have no right to peep over the
blushing, happy girl's shoulder and read
the letter she so carefully concealed
even the existence of from her father.
We will wait until she sees fit to unfold
the whole mystery to her father and
aunt, and read to them without fear the
letter she now read with such a bright
eye and happy heart.
When she had ended its perusal, she
kissed the name which was signed to it,
and murmuring more than once `Dear,
noble Archy!' she thrust it back into the
secret covert of her bosom, and hastened
to re-enter the parlor.
`Ho, Blanche! Where have you
been?' asked the captain. `I have got
news.'
`Yes, that will surprise you!' exclaimed
her aunt. `You have no idea who
sent this present.'
`May I guess?' she asked smilingly,
as if she did not know.
`Yes; but you need not try,' said her
aunt, eager to tell her. `The black
man has confessed. It is from Archibald
worthington!'
`From him?'
`Yes, girl. Isn't it odd enough!' said
her father. `I made the darky who
stands grinning there as if he was a
laughing ivory-mill, I made him tell me.
For I got him by the ear and held him
till he out with it.'
-- 024 --
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
`Dat he did sure enuff, Missis,' answered
Cesar, rubbing his left ear. `But
you see massa tell me not to tell 'xcept I
hab to, and den tell 'em it was Archibal'
Word'nt'n!'
`That's his pronunciation, Blanche.
Archibald is alive and will be here, he
says, in a day or two. Isn't this news?
Why you don't seem to be at all surprised!
'
`I never was so much so in my life,'
answered Miss Sarah; `I had given him
up for dead at least. Now you will soon
see, at least, one of your lovers!'
`I shouldn't be surprised after this if
both of 'em turned up,' answered the
Captain. `But I can't get any thing out
of this Afracanus Cesar, Blanche, except
that Worthington is not many miles
off, and will be here soon to answer all
questions. Why what has he been doing
in all the war, man? We haven't heard
truck nor kelson of him before; and here
the first thing he sends me this negro
sailor, or landsman, or whatever he is,
for he wears the colours of both crafts,
with a bag of oranges!'
`Coz, Massa Cap'n he just come from
de West Indies, and he knows you like
oranges bery much.'
`Well, go and tell him I am glad to
receive 'em, and shall be happy to see
him whenever he choose to heave in
sight. Did you sail in the same ship
with him? Is he a common sailor yet?'
`He tell you all dat, massa cap'n,
when he sees you.'
`How provoking to be kept in such
mystery,' said aunt Sarah. `But look at
Blanche! She doesn't seem to be so
much surprised as she ought to be under
the circumstances!'
`I shouldn't wonder, after all, if she
knew who the oranges camefrom before
we did!' said the captain, looking curiously
at Blanche, who looked as if she
was quite well pleased with herself and
every body. She seemed as if she was
ready to laugh every minute. She busied
herself very industriously in looking over
the oranges.
`I declare! I shouldn't either, brother!
But if Archibald Worthington is
only a common sailor, she couldn't think
of him. Should you, Blanche?'
`What say, aunt?'
`The child don't seem to be listening
at any thing. I do believe she has all
along known about him, and has had letters
from him!'
`She never could have corresponded
with him, sister, unless he had got higher
than before the mast, love him as much
as she might. She knows that now, Archibald
has no hopes, unless he has done
something to win her. A bag of oranges
isn't enough to buy you with, Blanche, if
this is all the boy has got in his three
year's absence.'
`That it is not. Perhaps after all Nelson
Osborn may yet come back with
something more than a bag of oranges.'
`Did you not say, man, that Archibald
was a sailor?'
`Yes, massa, Cap'n, be sailor ebbery
inch on him.'
`And, I dare say, you are the cook of
the vessel he come home in?'
`Me come in de same ship sure enuff;
but me no cook, massa. But he tell you
to-morrow.'
`Well, I can wait to hear what he has
to say for himself,' answered the captain;
`so sister, restrain your curiosity till then.
What shall be done with these oranges,
Blanche?'
`I'll take charge of them, brother,' said
his sister, rising.
`And the man: where can he sleep?'
`Me go back to-night, massa cap'n.'
`No, you do no such thing. I dont
turn even a negro out in the night. We
will find a birth for you in the old barrack
somewhere.'
-- 025 --
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
`No, tankee, mass. Jis gib Cesar de
sack, and let him go.'
`Very well. Tell master Worthington
he will be welcome whenever he
comes.'
`Yes, massa, me sure to tell him.'
`And would you say the same to Nelson
Osborne, brother?' asked Sarah.
`To be sure. I am bound to receive
both, and to make them equally welcome,
till they prove their claims to Blanche's
hand. But Osborn, I think, will hardly
turn up.'
`I hope not,' said Aunt Sarah, `I know
Blanche hopes not, too.'
`What if I should say, I wish neither
would have turned up,' answered Blanche,
laughing. `But I suppose I will have
to obey my father, and marry the one
who proves himself to have distinguished
himself most. But to tell you the truth,
dear father—'
`Well, now for it, Sally. Here it
comes.'
`Oh, do tell the truth, Blanche. It is
somebody else. I knew it was all the
time. Who is it?'
`I will wait till another time,' she answered,
looking at Cesar significantly.
`Yes, yes,' said the captain, `you are
right. Well, my man, so you will go?'
`Yes, massa.'
`There is a dollar for you.'
`Tankee, massa, but I nebber take
bribes,' ansered Cesar, with dignity.
`Who the devil is bribing you?' said
the captain laughing. `You are au honest
fellow.'
`He knows how to keep a secret,'
said Aunt Sarah, a little severely.
There must be something wrong, or
Archibald Worthington would not act
so mysteriously about himself.'
`Perhaps he wanted to send this light
craft ahead to sound the channel and
see how the land lay after his long absence,
' said the captain.
`Dat jiss it, massa. He know how he
be received, by knowing how de oranges
is; and den he want to see how all is
afore he comes.'
`That is all right. He understands
navigating his craft, I see. Tell him to
come alongside as soon as he chooses.
To-morrow, we are going down the river
a mile or two to fish; and if he choses
to cross our track, he's welcome to come
aboard.'
`I tell him, massa.'
`Will it be prudent, brother, to invite
him. One doesn't know what he is now.
The present of a bag of oranges doesn't
show that he should be received so freely.
`I'll run the risk. Besides, till we hear
evil of these two young men, we must
believe good. Not having heard from
either of these for three years doesn't
prove they have been pirates or bandits.'
`It shows they have'nt done anything
worthy of praise at least,' answered aunt
Sarah, with some emphasis.
Cesar now threw his bag across his
shoulder, made a scrape and low obeisance
to the captain, and backed towards
the door.
`Good night, massa Cap'n.'
`Good night, Cesar Africanus. Tell
master Archibald Worthington all I have
said.'
`Yes, massa,' answered Cesar, as he
opened the door, and disappeared in the
entry, Blanche after him.
-- 026 --
CHAPTER V. THE CONFESSION.
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
`Tell him, Cesar,' said Blanche, in a
hurried under tone, to the negro, as she
was opening the outer door for him, `tell
him to come without any more delay
than he can help. Tell him we are going
on the river to-morrow early, and that if
he is near the half-way rock about noon,
he will be sure to see our boat.'
`Me sure to tell him, Misses. Bless
me how glad I be to see you and find
out you be sich a beautiful lady, misses.
I berry grad for massa Archy.'
`Don't linger? There, good night.
But I had forgotten! Take this!' and
with her scizzors as she stood in the
moonlit door, she clipped a tress from
her glorious auburn hair, and handed it
to him. `Give this to him, Cesar?'
`Lor a massy. How nigger car dis!
I guess I put him in de same ting I put
de letter in for bring you.' With this he
took from his pocket the piece of canvass
cloth to wrap up the shining tress in.
But she at once recovered the ringlet with
a laugh at her careless way of sending
the token her lover had asked for, and
folding it in her snowy white handkerchief,
she placed both in his hand. `There,
give it to him as it is.'
`Yis, missis,' but I'll jist, to make all
safe wrap em up again in dis ere rag.'
And Blanche beheld her cambric handkerchief
disappear within the folds of the
old canvass cloth, and then stowed away
in the top of Cesar's old tarpaulin.
The African then bade the fair girl
good night, and hurried away from the
door. She followed him with her eyes
across the green, and saw him pass the
old block-house, and disappear down the
bank, followed rapidly by a person whom
she saw come out from the shadow of the
dark wall of the block-house, after Cesar
had got by. She was about to remark
upon this, and wonder who it could be,
if not her lover `Archy,' himself, when
Aunt Sarah came out, saying—
`You will certainly get your death of
cold, child. `How can you be so imprudent!
'
`I am coming right in, Aunt. I only
came out to see the negro-man nut.'
`He could open the door himself, I
dare say. I am beginning to mistrust
something. Indeed I am quite sure something
is going on that ought not to be the
case!' Brother thinks so too.
`No, Sally, no,' called out the captain,
in his bluff hearty tone; `I don't think
anything wrong is going on. It is true,
Blanche and the negro Africanus seemed
to hold a little confab at the door, as he
went out. But it was not half so long,
nor quarter, as you are in the habit of
holding in the entry with every lady that
calls, just as she is going away. Indeed
Indeed I sometimes think your tongue is
never fairly loosened for talking till your
lady visitors get up to go.'
`But I don't talk with negro people,
brother.'
`Well, well; let Blance defend herself
if she thinks she has need to. Perhaps
she wanted to send some word to
Archibald.'
`It would have been decidedly improper
for her to have done so, under the
circumstances,' exclaimed Aunt Sarah,
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
with some dignity. `She ought not to
show any favor to any of the young men
till you have decided for her and them,
brother!'
`Dear Aunt don't get displeased with
me,' said Blanche, who looked a little
perplexed, as if undecided how to act;
but feeling that she owed it to the two
best friends she had in the world, to clear
up what so much troubled her Aunt, she
resolved that she would at once unfold
some of the secrets of the past; but not
all of them as yet, for the time for the
full development was not yet arrived;
and another, not herself, then, was to be
the speaker.
`I am not displeased, dear. I only
am interested for your happiness.'
`I know it, Aunt. Therefore, I will
at once explain to you all that I have
done. If I have been guilty of wrong,
I hope you and my dear father will forgive
me.'
`I forgive you beforehand, child,' said
the captain, kindly, and decidedly, `for I
know you have done nothing I should disapprove.
'
`I will then tell you what I have done,
my dear father,' she said, seating herself
by his side, and taking his hand, while
her Aunt closing the entry door, took her
chair a little nigher than usual to her
brother, as if she expected to hear some
great secret unfolded.
`Now, my dear aunt, and my dear father,
that I have resolved to tell you what
you do not know, I hardly know how to
begin,' she said, her cheeks blushing with
confusion.
`Begin where you please, dear,' said
the captain.
`Begin at the beginning, Blanche.'
`Well, then, at the beginning. You
know, my dear father, that when Archibald
Worthington and Nelson Osborne
were so fortunate as to rescue me from
the top of the carriage, and saved my
life just as I was about to be carried down
the rapid, you promised them—that—'
`That if they did anything in the war
then commencing, to render them worthy
of you, I would give you to him, who
most distinguished himself.'
`Yes, sir,' answeaed Blanche, with an
embarraed air.
`But brother, interposed Aunt Sarah,
`but you did not give them this promise
till they asked for Blanche. You did not
wish to force your daughter upon them.'
`No, not a bit. They both seemed to
think, that as they had happened to save
the sweet child's life, (and they saved her
with gallant risks, too,) they ought to
have her to wife. So, when they both
came afterwards to see her, and like to
have quarreled with each other for her
smiles, I had to take the matter up to
prevent blood-shed, or they would have
been pistolling each other, no doubt; and
I said to them, `Now my brave young
men, your country is just entering upon
a just war with one of the most powerful
nations on the earth. England has been
insulting us for years, impressing our
seamen as if she could do it with impunity,
and otherwise invading our rights.
`Now,' said I to them, `you are both
young men; and of equal age and prospects.
One of you has been some little
time at sea, and the other has not done
much of anything, but amuse himself
with his gun and boat. Now hark ye,
my lads! If you love my daughter, you
can wait for her and serve your country
for her. If she is worth the having she
is worth the winning. Now you have
certainly done her a great service in rescuing
her from death. But you can't
regard this as a sufficient reason why a
young lady ought to marry either of you,
though it may lead you to feel kindly towards
her. Besides you can't both have
her. Now go to the wars. Enlist either
in the army or navy, and distinguish
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
yourselves. Keep Blanche in your eye,
if you love her, and for her sake and
your own, let me hear good news of you.
At the end of the war return, and he who
has shown himself most worthy of her,
shall have her in marriage with her
father's blessing.'
`I remember it perfectly, brother,' said
Aunt Sarah. `And so does Blanche,
though she wasn't in the room; and I
remember that Nelson Osborne said that
the war might last like the old one, seven
years and this would be a long while to
wait.'
`And I said to him that Jacob had
served seven years for Rebecca. And
Archibald said he would be willing to
serve twice as long for Blanche, so that
he would win her at last. But I told them
I would give them three years. So they
accepted my terms and started for the
wars. Worthington went to Boston and
joined some frigate there, and Osborne
enlisted and marched for Plattsburgh, I
believe. But nothing certain has been
known of either of them since. And it
is full three years since they went.'
`Three years, to-morrow, father answered
Blanche.
`So you have kept the reckoning, have
you, girl. I thought you was so engaged
in looking out of the window at the
moolight, you didn't hear a word I was
saying. But where is your secret you
was to tell.'
`Yes, instead of Blanche's talking,
brother, you have been talking.
`Well, I was only refreshing your memories.
Go on, Blanche; don't let your
Aunt's curiosity be kept long to leeward
of your secret.'
`Well, as I was saying, dear father,
when you promised me to one of these
young men, after they had saved my
life, if they would earn for themselves a
name in the war, of course, I had nothing
to do but to acquiesce. I was grate
ful to both of them when I recollected
how courageously they had ventured out
in the frail skiff, when no man dared
launch a boat, and at the imminent
hazard of being carried over the falls
with me, rescued me from the floating
carriage.'
`I shall never forget my sensations as
I found myself approaching the roaring
rapids, nor the joyful hope of yet being
saved, as the voices of the young men
reached my ears, encouraging me, and I
beheld their approach! Archibald was
the first to extend his hand, and when I
grasped it I felt that life was yet to be
mine again! Aided by Nelson, he lifted
me from the top of the carriage into
the skiff, and I still hear the shouts of
the people on the shore! And when
Archibald placed me in your arms, my
dear father, I felt that I could willingly
have given him myself if he had asked
me of you at that moment of happiness!'
`I shall never forget that moment,
child. But certainly Nelson did as much
as Worthington. Alone Archy could
have done nothing.'
`True, sir; but Archibald seemed so
superior to him throughout all. I hardly
thought of any one but him.'
`You should have been equally grateful,
child, to both!'
`I was so, sir, but—'
`But Nelson wasn't Archibald. I see
how it was. Go on, dear.'
`Well, sir,' answered Blanche, smiling
through the mantling roses upon her
cheeks, `I could not gainsay your words
when you told them that they must win
me. I consented; though, I confess, I
felt that I could never be the wife of
Nelson Osborne, though he came back
the greatest hero of the war. Still I consented,
because I well knew he would,
all he might do, still be inferior in honor
and name to Archibald! I felt no fears
that he would elipse Archibald, or ever
demand my hand!'
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
`By my faith! You had great confidence
both ways, Blanche! But what
do you say now? Neither of them have
distinguished themselves! So far as I
see, all Archibald has done is to come
back a sailor and bring a bag of oranges
with him. If Nelson returns, he will
hardly bring less. The way, therefore,
to settle it will be to give you to neither.'
`To neither, sir?' repeated Blanche
quickly.
`Yes; they don't either seem to have
done any thing to merit your hand!'
`Perhaps you may not think so always,
sir,' answered Blanche, smiling. `But
I promised to tell you all I know, at least
all that Archibald will not tell you.
I will now frankly say, therefore, that
from the first I liked Archibald best!'
`That was clearly seen!'
`And I still like him the best, and am
willing to have him as my—as my husband,
father, if I must have a husband!'
`We will see, first, what account he
gives of himself,' answered the captain.
`I am willing to abide by this, sir.—
But it is my duty to tell you that the
evening before Archibald left I had a
few minutes conversation with him, just
round there by the side of the old Block-house!
'
`You did, hey?' exclaimed the captain
dryly.
`How imprudent,' ejaculated Aunt
Sarah.
`That was hardly fair in Archy. It
was stealing a march on his rival,' added
the captain.
`Well, sir, I had one with Nelson,
too!'
`Oh, you did! That alters the case.'
`Did you ever! Who would have
thought it!' exclaimed Aunt Sarah,
amazed.
`Yes, with both of them. Nelson
came first and sent his little brother, saying
he wished to speak with me only for
a moment before he went away. So I
went to hear what he wanted to say.—
And he begged me to let him write to
me!'
`And what answer did you make him?'
asked the captain gravely.
`That when he distinguished himself
in any honorable manner he should have
the liberty of writing to me in an envelope
to you.'
`Well and discreetly answered, girl,'
said her father. `And what said Archibald
to you?'
`Nelson had hardly left me ten minutes,
and while I was still standing on
the bank looking at some fishermen
spearing salmon by torch-light, I heard
a step near me. I turned and saw Archibald.
He said he could not leave
without seeing me, and was just going to
the house to ask your permission, father,
to say a few words to me in private.'
`That speaks better for him than for
Nelson, who went clandestinely about it.'
`It shows, sir, the difference between
the two young men in every thing,' answered
Blanche with animation. `He
seemed very much pleased to find me
there alone, and said he had come to
take leave of me, and to ask me if I
would permit him to write me occasionolly
under cover to my aunt!'
`How very proper that was, brother!'
remarked Aunt Sarah, well gratified; `I
see he is a young man who knows propriety.
And what did you say to him,
Blanche? How odd both should ask
you the same thing!'
`I told him that when he had in any
honorable way distinguished himself he
might write to me; but not till then.'
`Very good, Blanche. I see you are
a sensible nice girl,' answered the cap
tain.
`And did you ever get any letters?'
eemanded Aunt Sarah looking at her
very closely.
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
`Not less than a dozen, aunt,' answered
Blanche, laughing.
`Mercy on me! Not less than a
dozen!' repeated her aunt, dropping her
knitting upon her lap and holding up both
hand in amazement and horror.
`A dozen letters! How the deuce
did you get them?' exclaimed the captain,
looking surprised.
`Not under cover to me, I am certain,'
added Aunt Sarah.
`Yes, aunt, under cover to you! But
as I knew the hand-writing, I always
took them out and paid for them myself,
to save you the expense; and, as only
the outsides were to you, I opened them
without showing them to you. If any
one is to blame, it is I.'
`You are very much to blame!' answered
Aunt Sarah; and she was the
more angry, because she saw a smile on
the captain's face. It, however, soon
passed off into a grave expression.
`How could you keep this secret from
me, Blanche, for so long a time?' he
asked.
`Because, father, I wished to surprise
you.'
`To surprise me! Well you have
succeeded! I was never more surprised
in my life.'
`Nor I either!'
`Then I am to suppose he has distinguished
himself, as he has written to
you, Blanche!' said the captain.
`Yes, sir. He has indeed done so.'
`And nothing in the papers!'
`How has he done so, Blanche?'
`You shall learn from his own lips to-morrow,
father.'
`Well, I will wait till to-morrow, if
you wish it; but it seems all very odd to
me!'
`Very odd, and very remarkable. I
don't like so much mystery!' ejaculated
Aunt Sarab. `I wish I could have got
hold of one of the letters. I can under
stand now why you would never let any
body go to the post-office but yourself.
Oh, Blanche, how very sly and naughty
you have been! I dare say he understood
you only were to take them out,
and wrote only for your eye to read!'
`Yes, aunt. After his first letter I
wrote to him that I would always take
them out, especially as he had a secret
he wished no body to know but myself.'
`A secret between you. How improper
all this has been. Who would
have thought it of you. Really I don't
know what to think of you after this,
Blanche.'
`Just as you have before, dear aunt.
When you see Archibald he will clear
all up to you, be assured.'
`I trust so, child, I trust so,' answered
the captain, `for I confess I don't like
the way you have been sailing under
false colours.'
`True colours they'll turn out to be,
dear father, when you see Arcnibald!'
she answered, warmly.
`Well, I hope so. When did you get
his first letter?'
`Eighteen months ago.'
`I'll never say again, Sarah, that a
woman can't keep a secret.'
`I am glad you are convinced for
once, brother.'
`Where was it written from?'
`Rio Janeiro, sir. It was written in
good faith, after he had distinguished
himself, and was enclosed to aunt, but
sealed, and with the request that I should
keep from her and you a certain secret
in it, letting you read all but the postscript.
'
`And you did'nt even let us know of it
at all, Blanche.'
`No, aunt. I thought I would not,
but wait till the next. And so I waited
after each letter till the next come, and
so it has been until to-night. But I will
let you see the one I have received tonight
and the one I got last week.'
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
`You received one to-night!' exclaimed
both her father and aunt Sarah.
`Yes,' she answered,' taking the letter
Cæsar had given her from her bosom.
`The negro gave me this in the entry;
and I now have no objections to your
sceing and reading it.'
`I thought something was going on in
the entry,' said aunt Sarah, as if gratified
at her own sagacity. `So he gave you
a letter.'
`And the bag of oranges was only the
letter bag after all,' said the captain,
laughing. `Well, let us have it. I believe
all will yet clear up bright, Sarah,
though it has looked a little squally.'
The two letters to which Blanche alluded
she now exhibited. One of them
was worn and crumpled, but the other
fresh and fair. The letter she abstracted
from her bosom; but the former came
from the depths of her pocket. Aunt
Sarah's eyes were set wide open at the
sight of the letters, and she reached forth
her hand to take one of them; but
Blanche held them firmly, saying, as she
displayed the addresses,
`No, no. I will read them, aunt.
But you see they are directed to you.'
`That they are. Well, now read
them honestly, every word, Blanche'
`I'll trust her for that, Sarah,' said
her father.
`This first one I got from Boston, a
week ago. It is dated at Boston, and begins
thus,
`Dear Blanche—'
`Why, how familliar and improper.'
`Hist, Sally. Let Blanche go on,'
said the captain. `I expected neither
more nor less than the `dear.”
`I have at last returned to my native
shores, and my first duty, as it is my
greatest happiness, is first to write you'
assuring you of my continued devotion to
you. Absence, instead of diminishing,
has increased my attachment to you,
(here was a `dearest Blanche' which the
maiden skipped over!) and although I
have seen fair and charming women in
the various climes I have visited, not one
of them has for a moment made me forget
one fairer than all!'
`Dear me. What an open flatterer.
I really—'
`Hist, Sally. Let Blanche finish the
letter.'
`I am now preparing to leave for the
Kennebec. I shall probably take passage
in the schooner `Augusta,' that sails the
day after to-morrow. I hope to be at
my mother's, in Hallowell, by the last of
the week; and I shall then write to you.
You may expect to see me, or hear
from me, by Thursday, which, you will
recollect, at least I do, is just the expiration
of the three years' probation given
us by your father.'
`That is to-morrow,' said the captain.
`How well the young fellow writes.'
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
`He may have done nothing but write,'
remarked aunt Sarah. He seems to
have practised pretty well in flattery. I
wonder Blanche is n't spoiled. And
such kind of letters coming every month
to her. Dear me, when I was a young
girl if—'
`Is the letter ended, Blanche?' asked
her father, kindly.
`No, sir.'
`Then go on.'
`I shall not venture,' he says, sir, `to
go direct to your house without first
sounding my way; for I fear your father,
not having heard any good of me, may
not be willing to receive me as I could
wish. So I will send you word when I
get to my mother's. The bearer will be
the faithful Cæsar, whom you have so
often heard me speak, or rather make
mention in my letters. By him send me
word how things are at home. I trust
your respected aunt still enjoys her
health, and that the hand of time has
dealt lightly with your father's locks. If
you think best, you can let him know
that Archibald Worthington is returned;
but perhaps you had best keep the secret
a little while longer till you hear that I
am at home.
I have much to say to you when we
meet, and particularly about one in
whom we have both had some interest.
Believe me, dearest Blanche, ever faithfully,
your friend and—and—'
`And what? Don't skip, Blanche,'
said aunt Sarah, eagerly.
`Out with it, girl. I see he is a noble
fellow if he hasn't done any thing.
Don't fear to read out.'
`Your friend and love,
Archibald Worthington.'
`Was ever! Well, I declare I am
astounded! So this is it! She has been
all the while having him for a lover
when she knew that it depended on his
conduct, whether he was ever to be any
thing to her or not. How do you know
Blanche, but you may be Nelson Osborne's
wife, after all.'
`Never, aunt,' responded the maiden,
firmly.
`Then you have made up your mind
to have Archibald Worthington, whether
brother says so or not!'
`No, aunt. I know father will give
his consent.'
`I don't know, Blanche. He must
fulfil the bond. He must show that he
is worthy of the hand he seeks.'
`Perhaps he can do so, sir.'
`I hope he can. We will see what
he has to say for himself. I don't want
to be hard with either of the young men.
One is as much entitled to a hearing as
another. Still, I must confess I would
rather this Worthington should be the
successful man.'
`Why, haven't the papers said something
about him, Blanche, if he has done
any thing. They don't omit any thing
worth mentioning; though the person
may be only a sailor. There is that
brave youth, William Archer, who was
only a seaman on board a frigate, and
see what he did, and what the papers
said about him. And here, to-night, we
find he is made a lieutenant. No, no.—
If your `lover' as he presumes to sign
himself, had done anything worthy of
notice, or worth meriting your hand, the
papers would have had it. For my part
I would give my consent for the brave
William Archer to marry you, though I
never laid eyes on him, than before this
Archibald Worthington; who, after all,
is returned, so far as I see, only a common
sailor, with only a bag of oranges
to show for his three years absence.'
The captain laughed at this, for he saw
that aunt Sarah was a little on the indignant,
good-tempered as she usually
was. Blanche sat silent, looking by no
means alarmed, but rather seemed to be
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
gratified at her aunt's excitement of manner,
as if she felt that the result that
would by and by appear, would suddenly
dissipate all this cloud upon her brow.
`Well, Blance, the other letter brought
by Cesar Africanus, the sly dog! You
forget there is another letter, Sally.'
`I don't know whether I ought to
listen to any more such letters.'
`Very well, aunt, I will then—'
`No, read it, read it. We had best
know the worst. The idea that you have
been corresponding so long—eighteen
months—dear me, I wonder, brother,
you don't show more anger.'
`I have such faith in Blanche's good
conduct, that I know it must be all right
at bottom, though it looks rather odd.
Read, Blanche.'
`My dear Blanche—'
`Keep silent, sister,' cried the Captain,
holding up his finger. No exclamations.
One would think you had
never heard or seen a love-letter.'
`I! If you think so, brother, you are
very much mistaken. In my younger
days—
`Go on, Blanche.'
`My dear Blanche,
`I know not how to express to you my
joy, at being once more so near you.—
How have I wished and longed to be
where I could once more behold, even
only from a distance, the spot where you
dwell. I can hardly realize that I am
within two miles of you while I write,
and that as I look from the window of
the room, I can see the oak-crowned hill
that towers above the old Block-house
and barracks. I am impatient to see you
and learn from your father's lips my
fate. I shall come up to-morrow without
fail. I have only been half an hour
arrived home. I find my mother well
and overjoyed to embrace me again.—
Her humble abode seems to me a dear
and blessed shelter, after all the stormy
scenes of the last three years. She little
suspects my love for you, or the career
I have paused through. Occasionally I
wrote her home, but told her nothing
save of my welfare. A glad surprise
awaits her; for I see she looks sorrowful,
that I have not brought home a distinguished
name; for she loves you, and
has set her heart upon your being my
wife. Happy word. Happy thought.
`I send this by my faithful Cesar. I
also send a sack of oranges as a present
to your father and aunt. You may
tell them, if you choose, that they came
from Archibald Worthington, who has
returned home from sea. I have ordered
Cesar to keep his tongue close, for
naturally he is a great gossip; and if he
should begin, he would tell all: and what
is to be told, I prefer being the narrator
of myself. I shall bring with me papers
to prove what will be necessary. To-morrow,
I shall certainly be with you.
Till then, Heaven bless you.
Your attached and true,
A. W.'
`He doesn't say lover this time, Sally,'
said the captain, mischievously glancing
at his sister.
`He might as well. But there is a
postscript, Blanche.'
`I would rather not read it, aunt.'
`You must dear. No secrets now.'
`After to-morrow there shall be none.
I can't read the postscript, dear aunt.—
You shall have this and all the other
letters to read after to-morrow.'
`That is enough, Sarah. Don't urge
her,' said the captain. She has told quite
enough for one evening. I only hope
that this young man, Blanche, is going
to prove himself worthy of you.'
`He will, dear father,' she answered
earnestly.
The postscript which she carefully
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
withheld ran as follows, for we will take
the liberty to peep into the letter.
`P.S.—Send by bearer a lock of your
hair, dearest Blanche, as a token that I
am still loved, and that my presence
will be welcome on the morrow. Whereever
your name is written on this note,
I have imprinted upon it a thousand
kisses, all of which I send to you.'
What would not aunt Sarah have given,
dear reader, to have had a peep with
you, at this delicious postscript. As it
was she did not seem very well pleased,
but made some remark touching the impropriety
of which she had been guilty
in receiving any letters at all, when a
knock was heard at the door. It was a
sharp, abrupt knock, that made them
start, and the captain to exclaim—
`Who can that be? Go to the door,
Sarah.'
`Yes, I think it is best I should go.—
No more secret messages.'
As she spoke she laid aside her knitting,
and, taking up the candle, went out
into the entry to see who called.
`Father,' said Blanche, taking his
hand and kissing it, `do not judge Archibald
Worthington till you have seen
him and hear what he has to say. Treat
him to-morrow kindly, for he is worthy of
your confidence.'
`I will, Blanche; but it is all mysterous
to me. But I know you would never
do wrong.'
`Thanks, dear father. Perhaps I
ought to have told you the whole loug
ago; but I could not do so well, and
there was, as you will see, a sort of necessity
that I should keep the secret.'
`I dare say, I dare say. But who can
that be talking to your aunt Sally? He
asked for me. Why, girl, what is the
matter? You have turned deadly pale.'
`Nothing, sir—nothing. Excuse me
a moment. I will return soon, perhaps.'
And, thus speaking, she kissed his
cheek and hastened from the room just as
Aunt Sarah re-entered, ushering in the
young man in the infantry uniform, who
had encountered Cæsar at the block-house,
where we left him watching for
his return, and from whence Blanch had
seen him dart out to follow the negro
down the bank.
We also will follow him and see the
result of his pursuit. Cæsar, after having
begun the descent of the bank to
reach his skiff, in which he had come up
from Hallowell, heard a footstep above
him, and looking up, beheld the youthful
soldier. He did not like his company, for
he immediately bounded down the bank
and ran swiftly to his boat. But the
stranger was fleeter of foot and came up
with him ere he could gain his skiff.—
Finding he could not escape, Cæsar turned
short upon him and brandished a glittering
knife before his eyes.
`What for you come for chase me,
heh? You keep away, massa, or I make
de moonlight shine right froo you' body.'
`Cæsar,' said the man coarsely, `where
is your master or your friend, or whatever
he is?'
`You shan't hab no answer from me,
for I nebber tells what I don't choose.—
'Sides I knows you axes for no good. I
don't know zactly who you is, thof I
knows I seen you afore and nebber like
you.'
`Will you answer my question?' asked
the man, brandishing his sword above
his head. But Cæsar stood immovable
and fearless, holding in his grasp the
gleaming knife.
`I shan't answer; and if you doesn't
let dis child 'lone, you be sure get de
worst ob de fuss.'
`How came you and your master to
escape? I thought he was dead, and you
too, till to-night.
`You did, heh! Who you be, den?
What you know about bein' dead or
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
scaping? Who is you?' demanded Cæsar, his
curiosity now evidently alive.
`No matter. You have been in the
house on the green there. Who did you
see there?'
`Massa, I am in too much ob hurry to
stand here. If you follows me I'll kil,
you sure. I ant afraid ob you sword
while I hold dis knife in my hand dis-a-way.
So keeps you' distance.'
`You infernal scoundrel, if I had a pistol
I would shoot you.'
`I berry glad you hant. But 'scuse mel
massa, but dere someting in you voice
den make me want to see you face better.
' And with these words, without further
intimation, Cæsar, who seemed to
be as brave as he was black, knocked up
his hat from his forehead, and rolled it
on the ground, at the same time with his
other hand he caught the sword with a
firm grasp. The moonlight fell full and
brightly upon the features, hitherto so
carefully shaded, and the negro uttered
an exclamation of recognition and sur
prise, while his eyes flashed fire.
`Ah, ha! me know you now, you debble
white man. You die now sure,' he
cried fiercely.
But the young man, with a cry of
alarm at his danger, sprung backwards,
leaving his sword in the African's hand,
and took to his heels. He fled up the
bank like a deer, pursued for a few yards
by Cæsar, who then gave up the chase,
muttering with fierce exultation,
`You better run, soon as he see you
cognised. Me kill you dead. If Master
Arch know'd you was here he'd run
you through de heart. I thought I
know'd de voice,' added Cæsar as the fugitive
disappeared over the verge of the
bluff. `But who spec ebber see him
agen? I know why he call me Cæsar
so familiar, keepin' his own face hid; and
I know what him ax after massa Archy
for. He want to kill him agen. Guess
massa Archy hab him hanged if he cotch
him. Oh, de willain! No wonder be
ax if massa Archy no dead and me too.
If Cæsar ebber cotch him agen, he make
dead man ob him sure.'
With these words the African, after
looking in the direction of the fugitive's
flight, to see if he he could see anything
more of him, turned back, and was going
to get into his skiff, which he had left
just above the short pier, where the
`Wind-Eater' lay, when he found himself
suddenly seized by the breast by
Neptune, who, having seen the two persons
near the shallop, and suspecting
their good intentions, had left the deck
and walked up the beach to inspect
them. Cæsar was passing along in the
shade of an oak, when the dog, who
crouched in covert for him, suddenly
darted out and grappled with him with
that unhesitancy with which such animals
usually light upon a negro.
`What de debble dis? Oh, bress my
soul! Cæsar no steal noting, massa dog!'
cried Cæsar with terror, as he felt the
fierce hot breathing of the dog upon his
face. Juss leff a me go, good big dog.
I don't want kill you, but sure I put dis
knife in you if you do no leff go.'
`Come off, Nep. Off, sir,' cried Jack,
who had been roused from a nap on the
deck at the cries of Cæsar, and fearing
for the life of the dog; for he could see
the negro's weapon glitter in the moon-beams
above Neptune's head. `Come
down, I say.'
The dog released his strong grasp, and
at the same moment Jack reached the
spot. Upon seeing that it was a negro,
(for the sons of Africa were rare in those
days in the valley of the Kennebec), he
started with surprise.
`What are you doing here? Hush
your growling, Nep. What are you
cruising about here for, darkey? Show
your colors. Look you, what are you
doing with knives and swords?'
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
`Bress me! don't ax too many kestions
at onct. I honest.'
`If you are honest, give me your
weapons,' said Jack resolutely.
`Will massa keep dog off?'
`Yes—he shan't touch you. Now come
on board the barky and give an account
of yourself.
Cæsar having delivered up his weapons,
for he found that with the sailor
and dog against him he was a prisoner,
quietly followed Jack to the shallop a
few yards distant, Neptune walked
close at his side with a low growl, as if
ready, at the least intimation of a desire
to escape, to fly at his throat; and to a
negro a dog is at all times a more terrible
enemy than a man.
`You see, massa,' said Cæsar, begining
his defence as he followed Jack on
board the little craft, `you see I was
sent up here by my young master on a
yerrand.'
`Who is your master?' asked Jack
gruffly, as he stepped to the gang-way
plank upon the deck and laid the sword
and knife on the companion-way; `these
here pen-knives look like something going
on as orten to, and I'm watch about
here, and must see as how no strange
sail cruises about under false colors.—
Now let's hear you give a reason why I
shan't hand you over to the old Captain
for punishment.'
`Bress your soul, is it Captin Talbo'
you speaks ob?' exclaimed Cæsar with
hope.
`Talbot, man! What do you know
of him?' asked Jack, eyeing him
closely.
`Why, bress you, massa mate, I jiss
come from dere. It was to him I comed
on de yerrand.'
`That true!'
`Sure as can be, massa mate. You
jiss go ax him.'
`Yess, and let you escape. No, no.
I ant an old bird to be caught with chaff,
and by a nigger, too.'
`I no want catchee, massa. I bring
oranges present to massa Cap'n Talbo'.
I juss leave 'em dere. Dis here de berry
bag I cares 'em in.'
`It doos smell orangey,' said Jack,
snuffing at it, while Neptune snuffed at
Cæsar's shins, as if he was very desirous
of taking a mouthful out.
`Sure it doo, massa. Jiss please keep
you dog away, please, massa.'
`Go walk the deck, Nep.'
The dog obeyed, and Cæsar started
with amazement to see him pace the
quarter-deck.
`Dat be de last ting dis child ebber
see. He second mate, massa.'
`No, he's first luff, darkey. So you've
been up to the Captain's. Who did you
see in the parlor cabin?'
`Wall, thar was the Cap'n and a nodder
oldish kind ob missus, and a berry
handsome young missus.'
`That's all accordin to log. Now who's
your master?'
`He down to Hallowell. He massa
Arch, and juss come from Bosson; and
bein massa Cap'n Talbo' was a old
friend, he sends me up to-night wid dis
bag full ob orange as a present.'
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
`That is a straight yarn. If your master
is the Captain's friend I'll be your's.
There's my hand. What is your name?'
`Caesar.'
`I could ha' guessed it without axin',
for I never knowed a nigger that hadn't
Caesar spliced on to his figure-head.
What are you doing with that soger's
sword and this here Spanish knife toot?'
` Well, massa mate, I hab to tell you
de whole story if I begin, and I hab to
be back to massa Archy soon as I can,
coz he'll be lookin' for me.'
`I'll let you go when I hear about the
knives here, darkee. A man, specially
a blackee, who is cocht skulkin 'bout
the barky with two such boarding weapons
must be overhauled to know
where he's bound, what his cargo is,
and what his colors is. So uncoil here ;
but first here's a glass of grog for you,'
added Jack, taking from a shelf under
the cover of the companion-way a bottle
and tin-cup, placed there for his own
convenience when on deck at night; for
Jack insisted upon standing watch in the
shallop every four hours, Ned keeping
the deck the other four. This was his
habit at sea, which he could never rid
himself of on land. The grog was therefore
placed conveniently for him to take
a pull now and then during his watch.
`Tankee, massa, I b'leives I will take
a bit, jist for please you,' answered Caesar
complacently. ` Your ver' good helf,
massa.'
`Here's to you, darkee. May you live
a thousand years, as the Dons say!' responded
Jack, taking a nipper. ` `Now
for the yarn about the weapons.'
`Well, you see, as I is comfortable,
and 'tant late yet, I'll jist tell you, especially
as I wants you to be on your guard
agen de willain as I tuk de sword from ;
so I jiss tell you what he is, coz de community
ort to know.'
' Well, in course it ort, if he is a villian
answered Jack very positively as
he took his seat on the companion-way,
while Caesar sat upon a cask placed
against the quarter-railing. ` Now heave
a-head.'
'Well, you see, in de fust place, I is a
West Indgy nigger.'
`I guessed that afore, darkee. I've
been in the Havanna, and seed jist sich
craft as you, shaped jist like you fore aed
aft, top-knot and all. Now a Orleans or
a 'Merikan nigger looks different. Yes,
I'd swore you was a West Indgy,' and
Jack twisted off a finger's length of pigtail
and thrust it into his cheek, offering
at the same time the roll of tobacco to
Caesar, with
`Do you chaw, darkee ?'
politely.
`I does n't, massa, answered Caesar
`Then forge a head. You ses as how
you are a West Indgy,'
`Yiss, massa mate, and-'
`Avast there, shipmate. Who told
you I was mate ?' `
`I ony guess him, massa.'
` Well, I am Captain o' this barky.'
`Beg pardon, massy Capting, I does;
I berry sorry I didn't know it afore.'
`No matter, so you know it now. But
let out your hawser. Don't be so long
wearing round.'
` You interrup's me, massy.'
` Well, I wants to have you start shipshape
Now give her the helm.'
,` Well, I is a West Indgy nigger,
massy Capting, and I belonged to a master
French planter, live near de Havanna.
Well, one day, 'bout two year and half
ago, comes into de port a 'Merikam frigate
and my master invites de ossifers
to dine, coz my massy hab marry a Yankee
lady, and he berry much like de
'Merican. Dey all come out to dinner
in carriage and on horseback.'
` I got cast away on one o' them animals
mals once, out in Cuby. He wouldn't
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
mind the helm; and though I held him
by the fore-stays, as the lubber as let me
have him told me, he got the wind o' me
and there was no bringing him under
short canvas after that. I braced my legs
in the main-chains, both sides o' the saddle,
and got hold o' his tail to keep him
steady, seein' he veered and hauled
amazing and didn't keep the channel.—
At last he took a lee lurch, dove bows
under, stern up in the air, and sent me
three fathom over the bulwarks on the
road side into a corn-field.'
`Horses is berry dangerous,' responded
Cæsar, shaking his head. `These ossifers
came out on horses and got there
safe to dinner. There was to be a large
party in de ebenin' and massa hearin'
'em tell a story 'bout a young seaman as
had been the first to board an English
frigate, and had disarmed the Cap'n and
tuk him prisoner, besides strikin' the
colors wid his own hand—Massa said he
must come to de party too!'
`In course. That master of yours
was a true gentleman, darkee. That
was a brave tar. Do you know his
name?'
`It was massa Archy, my master as is
now.'
`The same that sent the oranges to the
captain?'
`Yis, de same.'
`How came he to be your master?'
`I'll tell you, afore long. Soon as my
old massa say dat he like to see de young
sailor, de first ossifer write a short billet,
and massa gib it me and tell me ride fast
as I can go to the city and go board and
giv de note to de leutenant.'
`The officer of the deck. And you
did?'
`It was only four mile, and I soon dere
and aboard ob de ship. I pressents de
note to de ossifer ob deck and he reads
it, and den calls out a name; and a
young man comes dressed berry neat,
for dey had made him someting under a
midshipman, aboard. `You is wanted
on shore, it seems,' said the ossifer,
smiling as he handed him de note.—
`You'll have to put yourself in trim, as
there's a ball!' He couldn't believe he
was invited, but the ossifer told him he
was, and he must go! So he got ready
and went wid me; and when we got
ashore and on horseback, he asks me a
great many questions all 'bout master,
and why he was sent for; and I told him,
coz I liked him berry much indeed.—
And afore we got dere, he seeemed to
like me berry much.'
`And what did he do when he got
there?'
`Why he seemed a little modest-like
at first; but master made much of him,
and treated him so like a gentleman, he
soon felt as much at home as his ossifers;
and they seemed to like to have him
there, for he was a 'varsal favorite board
the frigate! Well, massa somehow took
a great liking to him, and told him he
must come out again and dine with him;
and all the handsome ladies thought a
great deal of him; for every body knew
he had been so brave, and the first to
board the frigate and haul down the
colors!'
`That's enough to make a gentleman
of any man. The ladies al'ays likes
courage, darkee l'
`Yiss, I thinks they does. Well, the
frigate was in port three weeks, and jist
afore she was to sail he was tuk down
ashore with yellow-fever. The frigate
had to go, and left him; but the ossifer
wrote to my master, and we went right
in and brought him out home and nussed
him, He was berry sick for two months,
but by and by got well, and wanted to
go and join his ship; but it would be two
months afore it was expected back.—
Master and he rode out ebbery day, and
master seemed to like him as if he was
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
his son. I tuk care of him all the time
he was sick, and berry much loved him,
he was so good and kind.
`One day, massa came ridin' home
bleed n' in the arm. Three men had
'tacked him, who wanted to kill him, for
they were his enemies; and if massa
Archy —'
`That was the young sailor who had
been on his beam ends sick!'
`Yis. If he hadn't been brave as a
lion and killed one out-right and fought
the others till they ran, master'd been
killed sure, as he said to us. You don't
know how he praised him, and said he
owed his life to him. At length the
frigate came back, and he said he must
go. Massa would have kep' him, but he
said he must not stay another day away
from the ship. I then wanted to go with
him, for I had become berry much
'tached to him; and he was berry sorry
to have to leave me! And what you
tink master do?'
`Gave you to him, as was proper.'
`Dat was just it. He told me, if I
loved his young deliverer so much, I
might go with him and take care of him
in danger. Massa Archy didn't know
of dis till I show myself to him board de
ship. He den want me to go back, but
I wouldn't stir; and when de ossifer
come to know 'bout how it was, he said
I should stay and do what I could board
de frigate.'
`So you staid!'
`Yiss; and I nebber hab lef massa
Archy from dat day to dis. He hab
save my life four time, and I hab save
him life twice, coz we seen good many
fights on de sea l'
`What frigate was you in?'
`De Eagle frigate!'
`I've heard about her cruises. She
made a good many captures.'
`Yis massa, dat she did! But we was
in two oder vessels besides! Now,
Massa Cap'n, I b'leives I must go!'
`You haint told me how you happened
to come here abouts armed with this here
spanish knife and long soger's spit.'
`I haint time, now, Massa. I ony jist
tell you dat —'
`You must explain all ship-shape.—
How do I know but you want to kill me
and run off with the barky? Come shipmates,
make all square and veer out your
talkin' tackle. Here's another sup o'
grog.'
`Tankee, massa! Dis am berry nice
beberage.'
`To be sure it is. I haint been eight
and twenty years at sea not to know how
to mix grog, especially to suit a niggar.'
`It bery good, massa.'
`Now let's hear the end o' your story.'
`Wall you see, massa, arter we left
Havanna and cruised about on de ocean
we puts into Rio Janeiro. Dere we
found another 'Merican sloop-o'-war, de
Lexinwille.'
`Lexington, you mean, darkee.'
`Dat precise de name, massa. Well,
dere was parties on shore, and one night
dere was a smashin' great ball at de Emp'ror's
palace.'
`I've seen that.'
`Hab you?'
`To be sure I have! Ask me what
place that a barky can sail into on the
globe I haint been in, and drank grog in.
I've seen the Emperor's palace and his
black guards, blast their eyes. Five on
'em chased me and a messmate to our
boat one night, coz we keeled over a
Portuguee shop-keeper as wanted to cheat
us out of our money's worth. Jist as I
was takin' the last leap for the boat, one
of their baggonets caught me under the
waistband a-starn and sent me clean afinto
the coxswain's lap, keel up.'
`Well, dat was a berry 'markable escape.
De night de ball was, all our
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
ossifers went ashore in long-togs and eppylets,
and chapos, and swords at their
sides—'
`That's party riggin' all the world over.
You needn't tell me that.'
`I likes to be tikkalar. Well, some
how or order when do ossifers was goin'
to dair boats dere was a row wid de black
sogers, who wanted to get money out of
em for lettin' em go through de gate to
de mole. Our orsifers showed fight, but
were forced to their boats, but dey
brought off de Portugee Cap'n prisoner.
Somehows in de darkness Massa Archy
and I got in de boat as belonged to the
sloop-o'-war and didn't know it till we'd
pulled off.'
`Then he went to the hall?'
`Yis, dat he did, for he messed wid de
middies though he want one; but the
Captain said he must, for he'd have him
a middy soon as he got to the states, for
de skipper like Massa Archy bery great
deal. Finding he was in de wrong boat,
Massa Archy said he'd keep on, and go
aboard de sloop first, and den be put
aboard de frigate. Well, when we got
aboard, as Massa Archy was passing de
marine as was sentry at de gangway, he
no sooner saw de marine, den he speak
his name out with surprise; but neider
spoke to each oder, ony de marine look
black as em thunder when he see Massa
Archy treated as equal by the ossifers.'
`Who was the marine?'
`Why you see it was a love matter.—
Massa Archy and he hab love de same
young Misses, and her fader say dat
neider ob em shall hab her till de war
was ober, and den he gib her to him as
'stinguished himself de bravest! Dat
was de reason de soger when he see Massa
Archy look so black.'
`I understand. He was only a marine,
and seeing the other a gentleman-like,
it riled his bilge-water.'
`Dat it did! Well, I cant tell you all
what happened arterwards, but may be
I'll spin the yarn some oder time; but I
jiss wants to inform you dat when I was
coming from your Massa Captain's up
dere, wid dis bag, I meets dis berry marine.
'
`The very soger as stood sentry and
hated your master?'
`De cozact man, massa. He try to
keep him face hid, but I 'cognise him,
and he axes me berry quisitive kestions
bout my master, as I didn't like. I did
not choose to answer him, coz I know'd
he'd try to do Massa Archy a mischief
ob some kind, if he could come across
him. He den got mad, coz I wouldn't
tell him where Massa Archy was, and
draw his sword and I draws my knife;
and I gets his sword afore he could pink
me, and den chases him up de bank.—
But he run too fast for dis niggar and so
I came to my skiff when your big dog
grab me by de jacket and axes me what
I doin dar. Den you come and dat's de
end ob de story, massa Cap'n.'
`It's a strait yarn, nigger. I see you
be an honest fellow.'
`To be sartain I is, massa.'
`Then I'll give you up your weapons.
Now take another sup of grog. It is
very dry work reeving off talk.'
`Dat it am. massa;' responded Cæsar
smacking his lips as he returned the tin
cup to Jack. `But I felt it to be berry
necessary duty for me to tell you bout
dis man, coz he's skulking bout here, and
he berry bad man; for I did'nt tell you
how he like to kill me and Massa Archy
dead.'
`No. How was it?'
`I cant stop now, massa. I ony say
dat he bery ebil man, and if you sees
him cruising about here, keep your eye
on him.'
`Yes and set the dog on him too.—
Who was the young lady your master and
this chap was trimming their sails in chase
of?'
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
`Why bress you, Massa, is was de butiful
Miss Blanche, up dare!' responded
Cæsar in a low, confidential tone; for
the grog had made him quite communicative.
`What the old Captain's handsome
daughter?'
`Yiss. Didn't I tell you that my
young Massa had sent her a bag ob oranges.
'
`I heard something about such shipping
papers being drawn up between the
old Captain and two young sparks, but I
disremembered the names. What is the
name of the other barkey?'
`Nelson Osborne.'
`I'll log him down in my memory.—
You say he went up by the block-house?'
`Yis, massa.'
`Well, I'll just make sail and give
chase. If he's such a pirate-craft as you
say, he haint no business coming about
Miss Blanche. I'm glad I fell in with
you, Cæsar! You say your master has
done bravely through the war!'
`He hab been berry 'stinguished;—
But when he and de Capting hab a talk
to-morrow, den I hab de liberty of telling
you all about it.'
`So he's coming up to-morrow?'
`Yis, for sartain.'
`We are all bound on a fishing-cruise
to-morrow! Tell him if he keeps a
sharp eye on the river he'll discover us;
and if he is on the shore let him hail; or
if he is in a boat to bear along side. I
love to see a brave tar as well as any
body. Now I'll just weigh and make
after that marine as you gave chase to!
When Nelson Osborne, for it was he,
as the reader has discovered, who way-laid
Cesar, had effected his escape from
him up the bank, he stopped to take
breath under the walls of the old block-house.
His bosom burned with the fiercest
passions of rage and mortification. He
cursed his carelessness in having betrayed
his person to the negro, in his eagerness
to learn where Archibald Worthington
was, and his want of skill in losing his
sword, and thus being compelled to fly
from the negro like a coward. But Nelson
Osborne was no coward. He had
showed his courage not only in his rescue
conjointly with Archibald of Blance,
but he had shown it in the war.
It will not be out of place here to
bring before the reader more particularly
the events which preceded the opening
of our story, and which led to the rivalship
of the two young men.
They were both sons of parents in
moderate circumstances, and of respectable
rank in society. They were only
sons, and their mothers became widows
when they were yet mere lads. The
mother of Archibald moved to the town
below Augusta, and there educated her
son with the narrow means her circumstances
permitted. Nelson remained in
Augusta, and as the lads were intimate,
they alternately visited each other from
week to week. In this way they grew
up to be young men; Nelson fond of
pleasure, passing his time in gunning,
fishing, and sailing on the river; while
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
Archibald was inclined both to books and
labor; and by making occasional trips
in the packets, for he had a passion for
the sea, he relieved his mother of the
burden of his sports even ere he had
reached his seventeenth year, and sometimes
was able out of his wages to bring
her a present of a dress or new cap from
Boston.
But Nelson thought little of alleviating
his widowed mother's toils for his maintenance.
He never earned anything for
himself, but on the contrary did not blush
to borrow of her, when he needed it for
his pleasure, money out of her narrow
income.
The residence of Nelson's mother was
in an humble cottage, just below the
rapid, and whenever Archibald visited
him the two young men used to pass the
day together fishing for salmon in the
swift current, or more adventurous carrying
their skiff above the cataracts,
dart over them with arrowy rapidity, and
not without imminent peril from the hidden
rocks and wild turmoil of the foaming
waters.
One day Archibald was on a visit to
his friend after an absence of several
weeks on a voyage to Charleston. He
had brought home money for his mother,
and gladdened her heart by his habits of
industry, and the proof he gave of integrity
and love of virtue. He was in
fine spirits, and although he did not altogether
approve of the character of his
old friend and school-mate, as it began
to be developed, as he approached manhood,
still from habit he visited him. On
the occasion in question a spring rain had
raised the river to a fearful height, and
drifts mingled with masses of ice were
driving furiously past the town. Archibald
was standing in the door of Nelson's
house, watching the huge logs and cakes
of ice leap the rapids, or shoot through
the narrow passages with loud road and
the exhibition of tremendous power.
While he was gazing he saw what appeared
to be a house coming down above
the falls.
`It is a horse,' exclaimed Nelson, to
whom he pointed it out. `The river is
rising fast to float houses off. The bridge
at Waterville will be sure to come down
before night.'
`Let us go higher up, and from the
bluff over-looking the rapids, get a better
view of the river. I have never seen
anything so sublime, except a storm at
sea, when the waves seemed to run mad,
and like living monsters, try to swallow
up our vessel.
The two young men hastened up the
narrow path, and going round the rapids,
ascended a bold eminence that commanded
the whole wild scene, and gave them
a view of the river for some distance
above and below them. While they
stood there, the house they had seen came
along upon the current, and was borne
swiftly towards the verge of the foaming
rapids. It rolled and whirled round as
it drew nearer, and then with a loud
crash was hurled over the cataract, and
all was ruin. In a few seconds aftewards
a hundred fragments were seen by them
tossed over the boiling waters far below
the falls.
`I am thankful there was no person in
that house,' said Archibald. `There
would have been no escape for a human
being.
`See, there comes a cow,' cried Nelson,
and a horse too, is struggling for
his life, just behind her. Poor animals.
Their fate is sealed. Hear how the cow
lowes, and turns her head this way and
that, with such wild fear, as she strives
to reach the shore. But mark the horse.
He seems to be conscious of the fate
that awaits him. See how he leaps half
his length out of the water, as he tries
to reach the shore. Now he has thrown
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
his fore feet upon a floating log. But
he knows it is destined to the same vortex
which awaits him, and he leaves it.
Nearer and nearer they draw to their
fate. Hear the plaintive lowings of the
cow. Now it is all over with her. There
she plunges and disappears in the fearful
waters. Oh! that I could save the horse.
`No mortal man can do it. What a
shriek?'
`It was his death-cry. There he goes
over? See how he bounds half his body's
length out into the air, as he goes over
the smoothly rolling verge. But it is his
last effort for life. He has shared the
fate of the poor cow.'
`And of every living thing that happens
to be adrift on this river above the
falls,' said Nelson, with an oath.
`Look! The bridge! The bridge!'
cried a hundred voices.
All eyes were directed to a point up
the river, about a mile and a half distant,
and there was indeed the half of a
bridge floating down.
`It is the Waterville,' cried several
voices.
`God grant no human soul was on it
when it was carried away,' said a poor
woman near. There could be no help
for any body.'
That is true, 'ma'am,' said Archibald:
`but what object is that floating near the
fragment of the bridge,' he asked of those
around him, as the wreck was borne
rapidly nearer. `There is certainly
something living moving its arms upon
it.'
`It is a man!' exclaimed several
voices; for a member of persons had assembled
upon the eminence to see the
flooded river in its power, and watch the
mad leaping of the logs and wrecks of
fences over the rapids.
`It is a human being,' a hundred
tongues echoed, with thrilling pathos.
`It looks like a woman.'
`She is floating on a couch,' cried
others.
Archibald looked for an instant steadily
at the distant object on which all eyes
were directed, before he could convince
himself that it was a human being, for it
was still half a mile distant. But he was
no sooner convinced of the fact, that a
fellow being was destined to imminent
destruction, than he resolved to risk his
life to attempt to save him, and when
he saw, as in a moment after it was plain
to see, that it was a female who was
so dangerously situated, than his spirit
was resolved what to do.
`Nelson,' he cried to his friend, `I
see a skiff that two men have just drawn
up to the bank there to secure it. Let
us run down the hill, launch it, and push
out into the river, and, if possible, save
her!'
`It will be madness,' cried Nelson.
`No power can avert her fate, young
man,' cried two or three persons near
him.
`You will only share it,' cried others.
`I will at least make the attempt if I
have to go alone,' he answered, and the
next moment he was bounding down the
steep hill-side towards the river's brink,
and in the direction of a skiff, which two
men had just before drawn out of the
reach of the water, and left on the bank
two hundred yards above the rapids.
`You are mad, Worthington,' cried
Nelson, following him to deter him from
risking his life.
`I cannot stand quietly and see the
poor woman perish before my eyes,
Nelson,' answered Archibald, as his
friend came up with him. `Go with
me. If we can't reach her in time, we
can regain the shore: and at least shall
have the satisfaction of having made the
effort.'
`If you go you will be taken over the
falls.'
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
`I shall nevertheless make the attempt
to reach her,' he answered, still hurrying
along the beach as he talked.
`It is Captain Talbot's daughter.'
`It is Blanche Talbot!' was now suddenly
echoed from lip to lip; and the
words fell on the ears of the young men,
as they reached the skiff.
`Then I will save her or perish,' exclaimed
Archibald with resolution.
`And I will go with you, Archey,'
answered Nelson, who was now all animation.
Without saying a word to the two men
who stood on the bank just above their
skiff, the two young men, as if obeying
one impulse, and actuated by the same
spirit lifted, each one end of the skiff,
and launched it into the current. Archibald
saw the two oars laid across the
limb of a tree close at hand, and taking
them down, he leaped into the boat, followed
by Nelson. They each grasped
an oar, and boldly pushed out into the
stream.
The floating carriage was about a
third of a mile above them, and they
about two hundred yards above the rapids.
With the swiftness with which the
bridge and coach came down, they saw
that in less than five minutes the fate of
Blanche Talbot, whom they now plainly
recognised, would be sealed. Both of
them were already unknown to each
other, and unknown to Blanche, her admirers;
and when they were assured
that it was she who was exposed to such
peril, their spirits seemed to be new created,
and their strength to be supernatural!
Giving themselves with all their souls
to their daring effort for her preservation,
they began to ascend the stream near
the shore, where the current was weakest,
encouraged by the shouts of some,
and warned by the cries of others, who
witnessed in amazement and terror, this
fearless enterprize.
The attention of the people on both
shores was now divided, between the
coach and the skiff, with its two brave
oarsmen. The object of all this excitement,
and almost mad exposure of life,
on the part of the two young men, was
standing upon the top of a coach that
was but a few inches above the water.—
At intervals she would wave her arms
towards the shore, but no cry escaped
her.
Suddenly, as the coach came into a
turbulent part of the river it began to rock,
and they saw her stoop down to hold
firmly on, in order to prevent being
thrown off into the river. The effort
she made in doing so, tilted the coach,
and it turned over with her, casting her
into the water. A loud outcry, accompanied
with shrieks and groans, rose
from the spectators at seeing this, and
every one expected she would perish
there, ere she reached the rapids; but
the next instant every eye was gladdened
at her re-appearance after sinking for
a moment, and again beheld her clinging
to the side of the carriage.
There was a loud shout of joy at seeing
this, but it subsided into a deep moan
of grief at the reflection that her safety
was only for a few moments.
`Poor child,' said one; `it is but a
minute's reprieve. For my part I wish
it was all over with her! Oh, what will
become of her poor father, who loved
her so much.'
`See the skiff!' cried fifty voices; `it
has now got up even with the coach,
and they are pulling strait out into the
river.'
`Only to die too with her!' said
many.
`Look how they pull. They make
their boat fairly jump. See! How
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
they bend to their oars and make it fly
over the water.'
`Courage!'
`Brave men! onward!'
`Onward! You may save her!'
`Pull away for your lives!'
`Don't give up!'
`On! on! on! Row faster! row for
your lives! There, they are getting
near her! See! What strength and
steadiness! There is no flinch to them!
They will save her! Heave a-head!
Make her fly! That is it! Bravo!
They will save her yet! Only two rods
more! Pull! pull! A few more strokes!'
cried and shouted again a score of men,
whose bodies and hands moved with
those of the rowers.
`A half a dozen hard pulls, my brave
fellows!'
`Row! row! row!'
`There they are!'
`They have got her!'
`They have saved her!'
`She is in their boat!' cried five hundred
tongues, as the young men shot
their skiff along side the coach-body,
and Archibald Worthington leaping upon
it caught Blanche in his arms, and,
aided by Nelson, lifted her into the skiff.
`She is safe!' filled the air like a thunder
peal.
But the universal excitement of joy at
the success of the two bold young men,
in their daring achievment, gave instantly
place to emotion of the liveliest apprehension.
For the moment they had
rejoiced in an apparent rescue; but an
instants reflection showed the multitude
that their joy was without just foundation;
that Blanche Talbot instead of being rescued
had only united with her two more
hapless victims to be hurled into the destruction
towards which she had been
borne alone.
`There are three deaths instead of
one!' cried several of the women who
looked on wringing their hands. `There
will be mourning in three houses this
night, instead of one!'
But the words of sorrow and fear were
silenced by the intense excitement of the
scene that now drew all eyes, and held
still the beating of all hearts.
The young men had no sooner taken
the scarcely alive Blanche into their
boat and placed her humbly, but gently
in the stern, than they sprang to their
oars again, which had not been hardly
thirty seconds out of their hands.
`Keep heart, Blanche,' said Archibald,
as he saw her look fearfully forward at
the roaring rapids.
`You ought not. You ought to have
let me perished alone!' she faltered.
`No, Blanche. If you perish I perish
with you!' he answered. `But there is
yet hope. The rapids are full a quarter
of a mile below us! Give way, Nelson!
Let us strain every nerve now, indeed;
for we have now her safety in our own
hands!'
`We will save her if we die for it,' answered
Nelson, as he bent strongly to
his oar.
`To the other shore, Not to the one
we started from,' had been Archibald's
words, as soon as he had removed
Blanche from the coach into the skiff;
and thither, to the east shore, the boat
fairly flew. It was at least one hundred
and fifty yards nigher than the one they
had started from. The foam curled
about the bows of their strongly propelled
skiff and deluged them with water. At
each stroke both of the young men fairly
rose to their feet, and then threw themselves
backwards with all their weight
They displayed astonishing strength and
skill. The least error, or awkwardness,
or feathering of an oar might have been
fatal.
As fast as they urged their frail bark
shoreward, it was borne downward by
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
the fierce current in the direction of the
roaring cataracts. The noise of the
dashing waters below them grew louder
and louder. Each instant they felt that
they were going towards the verge like
an arrow. It was a fearful race between
the speed of the wild river and that of
their little boat. It was a contest between
human strength and energy, and
the power of the elements.
The excitement of the crowds on
shore, as they watched the terrible struggle
of the oars-men, was intense. They
stood looking with breathless silence.
If one spoke others would hush him. It
was not a time for words. The anxiety
and suspense were too awful. The
prospects of the skiff's reaching the
shore was doubtful; indeed, no one believed
it could, though all hoped, and a
hundred prayers went up to Heaven to
aid the rowers.
The young men saw all their danger.
They calculated at a glance the distance
between the shore, and safety, and the
rapids, and ruin. They felt that the
chances were very few in their favor.
But the sense of their danger. The
sight of the lovely girl in the boat who
seemed, with her earnest looks and
clasped hands, to implore them to save
her; the encouraging shouts from the
shore that suddenly broke the silence, as
Jack, the well known Jack he was called,
with a coil rope in his hand came
bounding down the bank and stationed
himself on a projecting timber, stood
ready to throw it if they should come
near enough. All this inspired them,
and aided their efforts already super-human.
`Don't give up yet. Pull a little harder,
if you can,' called out an old packetcaptain.
`There is a chance yet.—
Never give up. Break your oars, my
lads, so you get here safely.'
`Pull now.'
`Oh, for a few seconds more time.'
`One minute more.'
`See how swiftly the river takes them
down. It will take them over before
they can reach the shore.'
`For your lives, men. For your
lives.'
`They do their best. God help them.
`Amen.'
`They are gone. They are lost!'
shrieked a thousand tongues.
`Hurrah! Hilloh! Hurrah! Well
done!' was the next moment filling the
whole sky like an army's shout of victory.
`Well done.'
`They are save!'
`Thank God! They are all three
saved!'
`Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!' shouted,
with shout upon shout, the joyful
multitude, as the next moment the hats
and oars from the skiff shotl ike an arrow
over the verge, and disappeared in
the vortex of wild waters.
-- 047 --
CHAPTER IX. THE QUARREL.
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
The cause of the sudden change of the
cry, `All are lost,' to the shouts of joy
and the cries of `Well done,' `Bravely
done,' and the means by which those
in the skiff were finally rescued, were
owing to Jack's courage and presence of
mind.
As he stood on the extremity of a fallen
tree with the rope coiled ready for a
throw, he perceived that the current was
stronger than their oars, and they would
inevitably be carried over the falls before
they could come within catching
distance of his rope, though it was fifty
feet long.
There was not a moment left for hesitation.
The distance between the skiff,
and the rolling verge of the rapids, was
equal, and the strength of the rowers was
failing, while that of the river gained
power as it approached the leap. Jack,
with the prompt action which characterises
seamen, and which had led him at
the first to hasten for the rope, on learning
that there was some one being carried
down the river, (for your true tar has
great faith in a rope in all dangers,) no
sooner saw that they would inevitably be
carried over the cataract, than he secured
with a double turn one end round the tree,
and the other about his body beneath his
arms. This was the work of an instant.
He then sprung out into the river as far
as he could leap, crying to those on the
shore, `to stand by to pull him in.'
He boldly struck out so as to meet the
skiff, as it was driving fast down the
stream, and as it passed him he caught
hold of it with an iron grasp, first with
one hand and then with the other.'
All now for a moment, a single moment,
depended on his individual exertion.
Archibald, with great presence of
mind, dropped his oar on seeing that he
held fast, and cast the boats' painter over
his shoulders, and took a turn rapidly
round the forward thwart. This bound
the boat to the brave sailor, who in his
turn was held to the land by the rope,
which he had tied to the tree. At this
there were already half a dozen of stout
men pulling, and the skiff was dragged,
Jack and all, bodily through the foaming
water to the shore. A dozen of men
sprang into the water, to draw the boat
up to a safe spot. A thousand voices
shouted with exultation, and the names
of the brave young men and the daring
sailor, were on every lip in accents of
praise.
Captain Talbot who stood on the shore
silently watching the whole scene, but
without the power to speak or give an
order, now caught his daughter to his
heart, and aloud thanked Heaven for
her escape. He grasped the hands of
the two young men, and wept with joy
over them.
`You have saved my child. God
bless you, for I cannot reward you,' and
then he turned from them to clasp his
child once more to his breast. A hundred
hands were extended to shake the
hands of the brave young men, and of
Jack, whose presence of mind and courage,
contributed to their ultimate safety,
and the friends and acquaintances of the
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
father crowded around him with the
warmest congratulations.
That was, indeed, a day long to be
remembered by those who witnessed
the scenes we have described. The
towns-people thought that no language
could sufficiently express the courageous
and fearless conduct of the two young
men. They could not for weeks afterwards
pass the streets without being
pointed out to those who did not know
them, and their names pronounced with
that reverence, which all men pay to
true courage, when exercised in the
cause of humanity.
If the towns-folk had reason to remember
the exciting events of that day,
much more so had the two young men.
The success of their enterprise for her
rescue, and the dangers they had shared
with her, could not but make an impression
upon their minds, and deeply interest
them in a beautiful girl, whose life
they had been instrumental in saving;
even though they had never beheld her
before. But both of them had known
her from boyhood. They had grown up
and been at school with her, till she was
removed from the `mixed school,' to one
for girls exclusively.
They both thought her the prettiest
maiden in town, and when togethey they
often talked about her, bvt without any
rivalry. Indeed each concealed from
the other, the true depth of his interest
in her. She, however, regarded neither
of them with any marked favor; though
she had been heard to say to one of her
youthful, confidential friends, that she
thought that Archibald Worthington
was the handsomest youth, and the most
polite, mannorly person, she had ever
seen.
Such was the state of feeling of the
parties when the danger in which Blanche
had been placed, and her rescue, gave
a more decided form and shape to the
previously existing partiality felt by the
young men for her.
It was a matter of course that both of
them should call at the old captain's the
very same evening of the rescue, to ask
after her welfare; for her alarm and
exposure, had rendered her almost insensible—
and when her father received
her from them, she fainted in his arms.
The old captain met them beneath his
own roof with a hearty welcome, and a
warm embrace. He told them again and
again, how happy they had made him;
for his daughter he had loved dearer
than any object on earth. From him
they learned the cause of the accident
which had placed her life in such peril.
It seems she had been a few miles up
the river with her aunt, on a visit of two
or three days to a relation's house, and
when returning, as they went, in the
stage, they two, being the only passengers,
had hastened their return home on
account of the rise in the river, fearing
the roads would be impassable in the
lower places, if they delayed. On reaching
the bridge, the river was nearly on
on a level with the floor, and the driver
hesitated whether to cross or not; but
as it was a very strong bridge, and looked
firm, he resolved to make the attempt—
and, whipping up his horses dashed
forward.
He had, however, got but half way
across when a loud cracking behind
them, told them of the peril they were
in. The driver had only time to shout
and tell them to save themselves, and to
leap from his box. Aunt Sarah at the
same instant, sprung from the window,
and followed the driver, who was flying
over the upheaving timbers to the pier,
which stood firm—while all the bridge
besides was undulating and breaking up,
and plunging in huge sections into the
flood. Blanche had got out immediately
after her aunt, and attempted to fly to
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
the security of the pier, but the crashing
and heaving of the planks and timbers
around her appalled her. While the
horses, terrified, were struggling over the
breaking floor, and at length clearing
themselves from the coach, dashed together
over the sinking parapet and were
crushed among the parting rafters.—
Blanche, amid this scene of ruin, was
afraid to move a step from the coach;
and giving herself up for lost, she instinctively
clung to it, as it was launched
into the stream by the sudden plunge,
and submersion of the fragment of the
bridge on which she stood. It struck the
water without turning over, and getting
upon it, she began to hope yet to escape.
But as she found herself borne rapidly
down the dark, wild river, amid a field
of floating timber, trees, cattle, and
dwellings, and shattered boats, she felt
that there was little hope that she should
ever tread the solid land once more.—
She was carried down between dark
wooded banks, amid forest scenery, and
part cultivated farms with the same rapidity,
and the same absence of all aid.
She saw people on the shore, and some
waved their hands, and bade her keep
courage, though for want of boats they
could not help her. Some ran along by
the bank for miles to find a skiff, till
obstructions on the shore or fatigue compelled
them to give up and leave her to
her fate. And this fate, she believed,
would be death! She knew that unless
some one came off to her aid before she
reached the rapids, which were seventeen
miles below the place where she
had been thrown from the falling bridge,
she should perish. At length, after she
had been nearly three hours upon the
top of the drifting coach, she came in
sight of her native town. She now began
to revive her torpid faculties, and
tried to hope for life yet. As she was
borne onward she waved her hands, for
she saw the people on the hills; but she
could not cry for the aid she so eloquently
implored by her gestures. She prayed
that God would send some strong arm
to deliver her, and then committed herself
to her fate.'
The reader already knows how wonderfully
that fate was averted.
The young men listened to this account
given to them by the Captain, with
deep interest. When at length Blanche
entered the room, and thanked them for
what they had done for her with so natural
feeling and hearty gratitude, they
both felt that they were more than repaid
for the risk they had run. Aunt
Sarah, who had been taken from the
pier with no little danger by men in
boats, and who had given her niece up
as lost, was scarcely less warm in her
expressions of thankfulness to them.
From this day the house of the old
Captain became a very frequent visiting
place for the two young gentlemen; and
they were always received by Blanche
and her farher with that kindness which
the service they had done them commanded
should be extended to them,
even though they should have possessed
no agreable qualities in themselves to
recommend them. But these they did
possess. Nelson Osborne was lively,
full of anecdote, and could make himself
very entertaining, especially to the
elder persons. Indeed, he seemed to
have far less faculty for pleasing a young
lady than Archibald Worthingham, to
whose conversation Blanche was always
a very deeply interested listener; for
Archibald was well educated, had seen
something of the world, and quited to
natural intelligence, he had improved in
the best manner all his advantages. He
had taste in poetry, painting and flowers,
and was skilled as well in graver and
more substantial studies. Blanche, young,
ardent, and susceptible, felt his
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
superiority and power, and willingly lent her ear
to his words till they had stolen away
her heart.
Nelson Osborne was not long in discovering
that Blanche very clearly preferred
his society to his own. He saw
that while he was entertaining the Captain
with some humorous story, either
made up, or embellished for the occasion,
and while he and Aunt Sarah were
laughing most heartily at it, Blanche
and Archibald were talking together in
a low tone by the window, or rather, the
latter talking, and the former listening,
with her eyes fixed with sweet attention
upon his face.
Nelson saw that he was losing ground
in trying to win the daughter by pleasing
the old people, and that Archibald,
trusting to his own native powers, to
truth, and the sincerity of his deep-rooted
love, was winning the prize he had
resolved should be his own.
There is no passion that so soon awakens
the evil in a man's heart as jealousy.
A look, a word, nay, a suspicion
will kindle the spark, and brooding
thought will act upon it like oil.
`Archy,' said Nelson, as they walked
home together that night, `you seem to
be getting along finely with Blanche!
wish you would not try to win her heart
in that way! This was said with a sort
of sullen reproach.
`Indeed, and why not, Nelson?' said
Archy laughing, for those may laugh
who win says the proverb, and so thought
Archy; for he knew by the looks of
Blanche's eyes that she loved him, if
not as well as he loved her, almost as
well.
`Why not; because I intend some
day to marry her!
`You do?'
`Yes, I have made up my mind to
that, and I don't want you to cross my
path!'
`There are two sides to that subject,
Nelson,' answered Archy pleasantly;
though he saw that his friend was not in
the best of humors.
`Well, one side I mean to stand to,
and that is my side! I loved Blanche
Talbot before you ever thought of her!
You wouldn't have thought about her, if
it hadn't been that you helped me save
her!'
`That you helped me, rather! But no
matter; I shall not tell you when I first
thought about Blanche; let it suffice for
you to know, Nelson, that I do think
about her.'
`Then the sooner you cease to think
about her the better!'
This was spoken in such a menacing
and decided way, that Archibald stopped
and looking him full in the face, said,
`Are you in earnest, Osborne?'
`I never was more so! I love Blanche
Talbot and no other man shall love her
if I can help it!'
`And suppose you can't help it,' asked
Archibald quietly.
`I will help it; I am not to be cut out
by your blarney with her, Worthington, and
you need not think so. If you don't
want to quarrel with me, you will never
call there again.'
`I shall call to-morrow, certainly, for
I have promised to go with Blanche to
make a call.'
`She has said she will go?'
`Yes.'
`Archibald Worthington, I tell you
once for all, if you go with her, you
make me your mortal enemy!'
`I shall not disappoint Blanche, you
may be assured,' answered Archibald
firmly.
The two young men here parted, for
they had by this time crossed the bridge.
They parted without one word of `good
night,' and on Osborne's part in high
anger. Archibald felt rather like being
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
amused at his friend's angry bearing
and menaces, yet still regretted the misunderstanding
between them. But as to
giving up Blanche, he had no such idea,
but was rather confirmed in his purpose
to woo and win her if possible.
Their conversation, which had been
carried on in rather a louder tone than
was necessary, was overheard by the old
toll-keeper who was seated in his door
smoking his pipe, and it being deep twilight
he was not observed, though he
saw and heard them; and as the Captain
when he crossed the bridge always
used to stop and gossip with the toll-man,
so the next morning when he lingered
to exchange with him the news,
the old toll-gatherer said,
`Why, neighbor, so I see your pretty
daughter is like to prove an apple of
contention between the two brave young
men who saved her life a few weeks
ago.'
`Ah, how is that? how is that?' asked
Captain Talbot quickly. `I have suspected
something of the kind: but what
have you heard?'
`Why you see, as town-folks don't
pay toll only by the quarter and come
and go as they please, I often in the
evening, as I sit in my door, hear a good
deal more talk than folks intend, especially
as the bridge echoes; and so last night
just as it was growing dark I was seated
here in my door smoking, when I heard
two persons coming across and talking
smartly loud. I soon heard 'em mention
your da'ater's name, and know'd one o'
the voices, the loudest to be be that o'
Nelson Osborne!'
`And what did he say of my child?'
`Nothing!' it was a quarrel I found
about her, between Osborne and Archibald
Worthington. I don't say Archy
was quarrelling, it was on the side o'
Nelson, so far as I could hear it. Nelson
said Archibald must give up all
thoughts of your daughter or he'd make
him his enemy and would rue it; which
Archy answers that he shall not be
governed by the other's wishes but do as
he pleases. Nelson was tremendously
angry as they went by me, and just here
by the post, at the bridge end, they parted
in such a way that I shouldn't wonder
if, when they met again, they should
come to blows about her.'
`I'll see to that. I'll forbid them both
my house, if Blanche does owe her life
to them. Do they think because they
saved her from drowning that she belongs
to them, like a piece of drift wood
picked up in the river. I'll teach the
young gentlemen another way to box
their compass.'
`It wan't Archy, capting. He didn't
seem to be to blame or quarrelling; it
was all Nelson who wanted him to say
he would never go to your house again,
because he wanted a clear coast for himself,
you see; and he was mad with
Archy because he said he would go as
often as he pleased. He wouldn't be
bullied, you see.'
`And he was right. But I shall have
to treat 'em both alike. I'll send for
'em both to come and see me to-morrow
and I'll have a talk with em, that'll bring
'em in stays, I reckon. You will oblige
me, neighbour Soule, not to speak of
this to any one.'
`No, I wont, if you say so, capting.'
`I shall settle the matter with them
with a round turn, before Nelson Osborne
is a day older.'
With these words the captain pursued
his way into the village street.
-- 052 --
CHAPTER X. THE TWO ASPIRANTS.
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
The result of the conversation held by
the old sea-captain with the toll-gatherer
is already known to the reader. As the
captain resolved so he proceeded to excute.
He sent early the next morning
an invitation to the two young men to
come and see him at twelve o'clock, as
he had something particular to say to
them. The message was verbal and
Jack the messenger that bore it; but he
was saved a walk of two miles by meeting
Archibald on the way to call upon
Blanche, as he had told Nelson he should
do,
The captain was seated in his leathern
arm-chair, talking with Blanche, when
Jack was seen approaching, accompanied
by Archibald.
`Well, Blanche,' said the captain,
`you can now go and look after the dinner;
I have a few words to say to Master
Worthington, who I see is coming over
the green. You are a good girl to give
up so readily your promised walk with
him, but I'll clear you to him; and as I
have found out from you in our little talk
here, that you are not particularly disposed
to have either of them—'
`I did not say either of them, father.
I said that I did not think because they
saved my life they ought to claim my
hand. But I had Nelson only in my
thought when I spoke.'
`I see! I see! You think that Archibald
may pretend to your hand, but not
Nelson. A manifest partiality.'
`Indeed—dear father—I—'
Here Blanche blushed and stammered,
for she felt she had betrayed herself
farther than she intended.
`Don't look so guilty, child. It is
nothing remarkable that you should prefer
one to the other. But their claims
are equal to your hand, if they are really
serious in seeking it; I must treat them
both alike. But here comes Worthington
in at the door; and I would rather
he should not see you. There, too, is
Nelson hastening this way across the
bridge. I will find out their intentions
and come to a perfect understanding
with them before they leave the house.'
`Don't say anything, father, that will
make me appear foolish.'
`Leave it with me, child. I shall
look after your interests and happiness.
I am not going to have two young men
fighting about you, when I can put them
on good terms with one another and
make all fair and above board. Good
bye. After they are gone I'll see you
again and let you know how the wind
blows.'
Blanche now hastened from the room,
for the step of Archibald was now upon
the threshold. The outer door was left
open, and entering the passage he tapped
lightly on the inner window.
`Come in,' called out the captain.—
`Ah, Master Worthington, I am glad to
see you,' he added, as Archibald came
into the room with a smile and a glance
round as if he expected to see the sunny
face of Blanche. `How do you do
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
today?' and the captain extended his hand.
`I am well, captain,' answered the
young man, who looked disappointed at
not seeing the maiden, but grasped the
captain's hand and took the seat opposite
to him, to which he pointed him.
`You have got my message soon.'
`Jack met me, sir. I was coming up
to fulfil an appointment with Blanche to
go with her to Mrs. Wilson's.'
`Blanche begs to be excused, Archibald.
'
`I hope she is not ill, sir.'
`Oh, no! But, to tell you the truth,
young gentleman, and speak my mind
bluntly, like an old sailor, I don't think
that it is exactly the thing for a young
girl to be cruising about with a young
gentleman. We are always glad to see
you,—of late your attentions, as well as
those of Master Osborne, are getting to
be too particular unless—that is unless—'
Here the captain hesitated for a word.
`Unless they love her, sir; let me add,
and I do love her, sir; and, captain Talbot,
if you will give me your consent I
wish to make her my wife, if I can obtain
her own.'
`That is plain talk, and coming to the
point, Master Archibald; and I like to
see you so frank and sincere. You could
not have said more in fewer words. But
there is another claimant for her hand.'
`Who, sir?' asked Archibald, quickly.
`Nelson Osborne, your friend. He
seems to think his claim for the maiden's
hand quite as strong as your own, if what
I see and observe and hear be true. But
here he comes to answer for himself.'
`While the captain was speaking the
young man came in without rapping;
when seeing Arcbibald he frowned darkly,
and half drew back as if he could not
endure to be in the same room with his
rival.
`Come in and sit down, Master Osborne.
I have sent for you and Archi
bald to have a little talk with you. Come
sir, don't show any angry feelings here.
Blanche is not a bone for two dogs to
fight about.'
`Fight, sir,' repeated Nelson, haughtily.
`Yes, sit down, and I'll tell you how
that I have heard your conversation with
Archibald as you crossed the bridge last
night reported to me. I am not the man
to have my daughter made the subject of
loud words in the public thorough-fares.
I have, therefore, sent for you two young
gentlemen, to have a little talk with you.'
Nelson looked both mortified and angry
at this firm and spirited declaration of the
captain's, and sullenly taking a chair, he
looked sumultaneously from him to Archibald,
as if he believed the latter had
been the reporter. He understood the
look, and said quietly.
`It was not through me that Captain
Talbot heard of the words which passed
between us.'
`No, sir,' responded the captain; `I
heard it from the toll-gatherer, who over-heard
you as you passed; for it seems
you let you feelings so far overcome your
discretion in discoursing about my daughter
that you forgot there were ears abroad.'
`I am very sorry, sir, that—'
`No matter now, it is passed; but I
have resolved there shall be no more of
it. I have therefore sent for you both,
that we might have an understanding together.
No doubt you both feel an interest
in Blunche; it is natural you should,
under the circumstances, and then she
is such a good girl, no one can see her
and not love her. Therefore, I do n't
blame you, my lads. But she must not
be made the subject of contention between
you. She must not be the means of
making enemies of two friends.'
`I have no hostility towards Mr. Worthington,
' answered Osborne, doggedly.
`I do not fear his rivalship.'
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
`That is not the question. You both
visit my daughter. What Mr. Worthington's
intentions are, he has told me!'
`And mine you shall also know. I
love Blanche Talbot, if I ever loved anybody,
and if I could get your consent and
her's, sir, I should think I was more than
repaid for having saved her life.'
Archibald smiled. The captain looked
at Nelson as if he was doubtful whether
he had heard him aright; but seeing
the smile on Worthington's face, he was
satisfied that he had.
`Then you think your service requires
pay, young man. If you only want to be
rewarded and expect Blanche only as a
reward for having saved her, why I think
I had better keep her, and give you what
you ask in money.'
`I did not mean, sir, that is—I—'
`No matter. No man can eat his own
words again. What you have said you
have said.'
`It was an unlucky slip of the tongue,
sir. I love Blanche for herself,' answered
Nelson, who saw that he had inadvertently
betrayed the hollowness and
selfishness of his true character. He
saw that the captain and Worthington
both felt contempt for him. This conviction
did not have a tendency to increase
his amiability. But feeling that it would
be dangerous to his hopes in reference
to Blanche to show anger, he restrained
his spirit, and smiling, added, `I do not
wish any reward for what I did, save
the happiness of knowing that I saved
her.'
`That's a better speech and sentiment,
' said the captain. `But, gentlemen,
this interview must be brief. You
both claim my daughter's hand, both
seem to have equal claims, and I do not
know that one has greater than the other;
this will be for Blanche to decide whenever
she is called upon to do so; for she
is supposed to be able to know her own
mind with reference to you, best. Now,
you are both young, and neither of you
are able to support a wife as Blanche
ought to be supported; for she shall not
go from my house to endure privations.
Blanche, also, is young. If you were,
either of you, this day, to receive my
consent and her own, to woo her, I should
not let her be married for three years at
the farthest. She would then be twenty,
a good and proper age for a maiden to
wed.'
`I should not wish to marry her soner,
sir, so I only get her consent,' said Nelson,
with readiness.
`And you, Master Worthington; what
say you?'
`If I should be so happy as to be preferred
by the lovely Blanche, sir, I should
cheerfully acquiesce in whatever delay
she imposed upon me.'
`Very well, now hear what I have to
propose. `The country has just declared
war against England. Soldiers for the
army, and seamen for the navy are called
upon to repair to the rendezvous to
serve their country. Neither of you
have any profession which will bind you
down here. If you both choose to go
and distinguish yourselves during this
war, whether in the army or navy, as
you may choose for yourselves, at the
end of the war I will give Blanche to the
one that has earned for himself the most
honorable name.
There can be no objection to this condition,
sir,' answered Archibald. `You
have only anticipated my own intentions,
Captain Talbot; for I have already made
up my mind to go into the navy and join
the Eagle frigate, now fitting out at Boston.
But I had hoped first to have the
promise of Blaneche's hand; but I am
willing to comply with the condition you
propose; that he who acquits himself the
most bravely shall win her.'
`The war may last for seven years,'
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
said Osborne, who did not look as if he
relished the proposed ordeal.
`Well, I will limit the time for your
absence. If you, either of you, return
at the end of three years, bringing back
a name that men will speak with praise
on account of your exploits, Blanche
shall be yours; for I know she will not
refuse her hand to a brave man, who,
for her sake, has perilled his life in his
country's battles. Now, young gentlemen,
you know the conditions. Fulfil
your part, and I will fulfil mine.'
`I am glad of this opportunity, sir, of
testing my devotion to Blanche,' answered
Archibald, with manly sincerity
in the tone of his voice.
`I think the terms rather hard, Captain,
' said Nelson, trying to laugh, and
to appear as if he spoke in a joking
way: for a bullet might put an end to all
our distinction.'
`He who would win a fair lady must
not fear bullets, young man. I should
have heeded them little in my young
days, if such an offer as I make you was
proposed to me.'
`Captain Talbot, I shall go to-morrow
to Boston, in a packet that sails there,'
said Richard, `I shall not return, neither
shall I write home until you have
heard to me through the gazettes of my
native country. If I cannot in three
years do something worthy of Blanche I
do not deserve her.'
The two young aspirants for the
maiden's hand then shook hands with
the Captain and took their leave. Nelson
tried to go with a good grace, but he
evidently felt deeply chagrined and vexed.
He looked round, and lingered as
if he would see Blanche; but she did not
make her appearance. Archibald, on
the contrary, shook the Captain heartily
by the hand, and, although he did not
see Blanche, he felt more gratified than
otherwise; for he said in his heart, I
will see her this evening and say good
bye to her alone.
`Now, my friends,' said the Captain,
as he accompanied them to the door, `I
hope you will both be good friends and
honorable rivals. You will have a fair
start together for distinction, and I trust
that you will yet return full of honors;
and to him who has proved himself most
deserving Blanche shall be given.'
Nelson Osborne walked rapidly away
from the house, not caring to have Archibald
for his companion across the
bridge.
The latter merely smiled at his hostile
feelings, and proceeded leisurely on his
own way.
The reader is already aware, from
Blanche's confession, that she granted to
each a brief interview the same evening.
The next day Archibald left his native
valley, resolved never to return to it until
he should return worthy of Blanche.
Nelson Osborne remained two or three
days in town and then suddenly departed.
Some said he had gone to Portland
to enlist in the troops destined for the defence
of that place; others said he had
enlisted in the marine corps, of which
there was a rendezvous at Wiscassett.—
The latter persons were correct. He went
to Wiscassett, and enlisted in a company
that soon afterwards proceeded to New
York, for the purpose of garrisoning the
fort at Governor's Island. From that
time there was no trace of him reached
Captein Talbot during the war, nor was
anything heard of Archibald, save that
he joined the frigate Eagle and sailed in
her from Boston.
A rumor had indeed reached the valley
of the Kennebec that a certain person,
by the name of Osborne, had been disgraced
from the service for some misdemeanour;
but no one could tell whether
it was Nelson Osborne or not. But from
Archibald Worthington no intelligence
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
of any kind was received save secretly by
Blanche. But how this was will by and
by appear. We will now briefly follow
the career of Nelson Osborne. The
company of marines to which he was attached
had been ordered to a sloop-of-war,
which, after various cruises, reached
Rio. While on board of her, doing
duty as sentry, Nelson one day recognised
Archibald coming on board. His
surprise at seeing him on equal terms
with the officers was only surpassed by
his envy and vexation. He saw that he
was already in advance of him. He secretly
resolved, therefore, like a coward
as he was, that he would endeavor to
compass his destruction. What he heard
of the bravery of the young man only
confirmed him in his hatred of him. He
had asked one of the officers what that
person had done to entitle him to their
companionship, and was answered,
`He was the first man that boarded
the British frigate Monmouth and hauled
down her colors. He is the bravest
young fellow in the navy, and will have a
midshipman's warrant ere long.'
`Not if I can prevent it,' muttered the
marine; `I see that I must hope to win
Blanche, not by distinguishing myself.
but by preventing Worthington from doing
so. If I have to take his life, I will
stop his career. Blanche Talbot is already
his.'
It was a year before Nelson Osborne
had an opportunity of putting his design
into execution. At length he succeeded
in being transferred to the same ship to
which Archibald was attached. He
pretended the closest friendship for him,
and succeeded in deceiving him and
winning his confidence, assuring him
that having long since given up all
thoughts of Blanche, he had now no reason
to look upon him as an enemy.
Seeing that Archibald believed him,
he watched his opportunity for compassing
his death; for on this he had resolved.
His watchful spirit was ever on the
alert for an opportunity which should
both ensure his rival's destruction and
his own safety. At length one offered,
just such a one as he would have chosen.
The sloop-of-war had stopped at an
uninhabited island for water, aud in one
of the boats which went on shore was a
small detachment of marines. Nelson
managed to get into this party, as Archibald
was to have command of the boat;
and, said he to htmself, `now is the time
(if ever) for me to seek his ruin. On the
shore we shall be scattered, and I shall
have an opportunity of putting him out
of the way without suspicion.'
At sunset, when the boats were ready
to put off, Archibald nor his faithful
companion Cæser were to be found.—
After a brief search, the boats pulled on
board, as it was growing dark, and the
officers resolved to search for them in the
morning, supposing they had wandered
unwittingly into the interior. But the
search proved fruitless, and the sloop
sailed, leaving them to their fate.
-- 057 --
CHAPTER XI. THE RETURN.
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
The joy of Nelson Osborne at hearing
the order, at length given by the sorrowing
commander of the sloop-of-war, to
weigh anchor and continue on the voyage,
was very great. He felt that now
his triumph was complete; that Blanche
Talbot was to be his own. He laughed
secretly as he heard the officers and men
lament the loss of the noble young man,
and speak of him in terms of the warmest
praise. He felt that he had no more to
fear from so formidable a rival, who had
already, ere half the term of their probation
had expired, had acchieved honors
sufficient to win him the hand of Blanche
Talbot.
`No one will ever know or suspect the
part I have had in this matter,' he said,
within himself; `and as he will never
live to return to claim her, of course
Blanche is bound to be mine.'
Osborne had now only one draw back
to his satisfaction; and this was the
time that would elapse, a year and a
half, before he should dare to present
himself before the old captain and ask
the hand of his daughter. Till that time
should arrive he felt indifferent as to the
performance of his duty; `for,' thought
he, `in the death of Worthington every
thing is acchieved at my hands.'
The sloop sailed round the Horn and
was absent for nearly a year longer, a
year most irksome to Nelson Osborne.
At length it returned to New York bringing
him home in irons for having, by
force of arms, resisted his superior officer.
He was sentenced to receive thirty
nine lashes the day of the sloop's arrival
in port, and to be infamously turned
ashore in citizen's garb.
For some weeks he wondered about
the city, the hanger on of the docks and
taverns, and finally stealing from a land-lord,
he was arrested and imprisoned
for four months. When he was discharged
the war was drawing to a close
and he resolved that he would prepare to
present himself in his native town, and
also prepare a story of his deeds in the
war, that should carry credit with it to
the old captain. He reached Boston by
working his passage on a coasting vessel
and there, with the proceeds of a gold
watch he had stolen from the captain of
the trader, he purchased a suit of infantry
uniform of a lieutenant's grade, having
been so fortunate, as he conceived it
to be, to see a lieutenant Osborn reported
for his gallantry at the late battle of
New Orleans.
`It is my own name without the (e)
and I will use it, for the owner will
never call for it, at least till I have got
Blanche on the strength of it. And it
is very common for a letter to be left out
in a person's name in the hurry of printing.
Fortunately they hav'nt given his
other name, or it might not chime with
mine. Lieutenant Osborn I will be!'
Thus resolved, he purchased, as we
have said, a lieutenant's uniform and
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
sword, and having carefully collected the
two or three different notices of the battle
at New Orleans, in each of which in
a different manner, but always in terms
of high praise, this Lieutenant Osborn
was spoken off, he went to the Exchange
Hotel and so entered his name upon the
register: viz—
`Lieutenant Osborne, New Orleans!'
The news of the battle having but a
few days previous reached the city, the
gentlemen in the hotel seeing an officer
enter his name in this manner of course
supposed it to be the same one alluded
to in the papers. One or two gentlemen,
wishing to do him honor and to learn the
details of the fight, approached and, inintroducing
themselves, asked if it was
not Lieutenant Osborn who had distinguished
himself in the late battle at New
Orleans, they had the honor of addressing?
'
`I cannot lay claim, gentlemen, to any
distinction,' he answered, bowing and
smiling. `I had the honor to be present
in the gallant affair.'
The next day appeared the following
notice in the Centinel:
`The gallant Lieutenant Osborn,
whose heroic conduct at New Orleans
reflected such credit upon America, is
now at the Exchange Hotel in this city.
We understand from those who have conversed
with this gentleman that he come
as far as Washington, bearer of Despatches
from General Jackson, and has
now extended his journey thus far, being
on his way to visit his friends at the
eastward.'
This flattering announcement was not
unlooked for or unexpected by Osborne.
He had said to himself, `If I go to the
Exchange and put up for a day or two, I
shall get my name in the papers, and
that will do my business with the captain.
' Three days after this notice appeared,
and armed with it in his pocket,
he reached his native town, so timing his
entrance as to arrive at dusk; as he did
not wish to attract any particular attention
until he had settled matters to his
satisfaction over at the `Barracks.'
`When I get the consent of the old
captain, and set the day for the wedding
then I shall have no fears! Besides
what should I fear! Worthington is
dead! And it can be proved that I am
the same lieutenant Osborn that put up at
the Exchange, and who is noticed so
favorably in the paper. What more can
the captain want or ask? Yes,' he asked
himself, as he glided across the bridge,
`what more can he desire? I will have
the marriage take place within three
days. Once married, and Blanche
and her money mine, I shall not care
what discoveries the old man makes, so
long as he never discovers the hand I had
in Worthington's— What can that
person be doing there, skulking about the
captain's?' he exclaimed quickly, as he
now discovered Cesar with his bag of
oranges. `I think I have seen that figure
before, but where I can't tell. I will at
least see who he is, and get a word or
two perhaps as to the way things remain
at the captain's, if it should be any body
that lives with him. It is a negro I
will see who and what he is. By heaven!
If the dead could rise—but it can't be
he!'
He then shouted to Cesar, in the manner
we have already described, and approached
him.
Having now brought the history of
this personage up to this point, and also
farther, to where he makes his appearance
at the door of the captain, after
Cesar's departure, we will now resume
the thread of the narrative. The rap
which he had given on the door, and
which aunt Sarah rose to reply to, was
given with a sort of recklessness.
Like one who felt that there could be
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
no question of his pretensions or claims
made by the parties, before whom he
was about to present himself. As Aunt
Sarah rose to go out to the door, and before
he was ushered in, as we have stated,
the captain was startled by an exclamation
from Blanche, who, while listening
for what was said at the door, her eyes
being on the Centinel, but without reading
it, she chanced to see the name of
`Osborn.'
She raised the paper to read the paragraph,
which was the same that has been
already copied above. It flushed her
cheek with alarm and misgiving, and exclaiming—
`Can it be possible that it is he. But
it can't be!'
`What child? who? Wait till the
person comes in.'
`I mean this in the paper father,' and
she read it rapidly aloud.
`That is odd! And lives down east
here! It may be Nelson—there is no
telling. But—hist—'
The door was just then thrown open,
and Aunt Sarah came in, as already described
in a former chapter, followed by
Nelson Osborne.
Blanche instantly recognised him and
uttered a suppressed cry of surprise,
while the Captain said heartily—
`Ah, Mr. Osborne, I am glad to see
you. You are well returned from the
wars. Welcome home, sir.'
`And so it is, Mister Osborne,' exclaimed
Aunt Sarah, with recognition.—
`How tall he is grown, and how fierce
his whiskers look. Who'd have known
him. Take a chair, sir.'
`I am glad to see you all well again!'
said Osborne, bowing and seating himself,
and feeling vexed at Blanche, who
had instantly disappeared from the room,
without even shaking hands with him.—
But the noble girl, who loved Archy with
all her soul, was resolved she would
give no countenance to his rival: for she
saw that he wore the uniform of an officer,
and trembled lest it was indeed he
who had been alluded to in the Gazette.
`Were he returned a General I should
not love him, nor would I marry him,'
she said, after she had been walking her
room some eight or ten minutes, greatly
disturbed at the return of one she hoped
she should never see again.
`Blanche, your father says you must
come in,' said her aunt, going to her
room for her.
`Why does he wish it. I cannot treat
this Nelson Osborne civilly.'
`He has returned a lieutenant.'
`So much the worse for me.'
`He is spoken of in the papers as a
hero and great soldier. You don't know
what he hasn't done.'
`He is in a very great hurry to trumpet
his own praises.'
`Brother asked him. Or, rather said
to him, we feared we should not see you
again, sir, as you have been so quiet.'
`Perhaps you did not look for Lieut.
Osborne, Captain,' he said.
`What, are you the officer spoken of
in this paper,' asked brother. `It was
such a beautiful notice, and—'
`I know, aunt, I know. And did he
say he was the person?' she asked, pale
as death.
`Yes, and is now showing your father
some other newspapers he brought with
him, in which his exploits are printed.—
You ought to go down at once.'
`Well, I will go just to see this great
hero, who so modestly talks of himself,'
she answered, with a sarcastic smile.
`Yes, come dear. He will be sure to
be your husband, for it is impossible
Archibald Worthington can ever have
done any thing to compare with this
Lieutenant Osborne.'
`You may marry him, aunt, but I
never shall were he a general.'
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
`Ah, Blanche, no running away, girl,'
said her father, as he saw her re-enter.
`I have good news for you from one of
your two friends. Here is young Osborne,
who has been keeping very sly
all the while only to surprise us in the
end. This is Lieut. Osborne, of the
army, the very hero we have just been
reading about in the Centinel. Do you
hear that, Blanche. By my faith I am
taken all aback; for I didn't expect nothing
like it. `Why don't you welcome
him, girl.'
`Lieutenant Osborne is very welcome,
sir,' said Blanche, in a very peculiar
tone; one that puzzled the `Lieutenant'
to analyse, but one that did not please
him. He half suspected she knew the
truth about him—but then this seemed
impossible.
`She doesn't like me, that is certain.
The raising from the dead of Archibald
Worthington, however it was done, has
given her hopes of him. But I will defeat
him. Dead or alive, Blanche Talbot
shall never be his. It is the strangest
thing in the world his turning up with
that negro of his, whom I supposed dead
long ago.
`If he has been alive where has he
been? I have not heard from him nor
of him. If he has done any thing more
I should have known it. But let him
go! I shall secure my interest here in
this fair girl before he sees her!' `I am
very welcome, am I, Miss Blanche,' he
added; `your looks seem to speak a different
language from your lips. I am
surprised at this coldness. I have returned
and shown your father proofs of
my good conduct and promotion in the
war. I come to you, as it were, fresh
from the field of glory, and lay my laurels
at your feet.'
`If looks do not please you sir, I cannot
help it,' said Blanche dryly.
`What has got into the girl,' exclaim-
her father. `This wont do, Blanche!
If Lieutenant Osborne has shown himself
worthy of you, I am bound to give
you to him, if he still desires your hand.'
`I still do, sir. The beauty of your
sweet daughter has been my watchword
in the war. I will not resign her
to any! The three years are up.'
`Hear that, Blanche?'
`Yes, father. But the three years do
not expire till to-morrow.'
`And what of that, Blanche?'
`To-morrow may turn the scales in
favor of one who may be able to present
claims superior far to those which
this gentleman advances.'
`Do you mean Archibald Worthington?
' said Aunt Sarah. `If you do,
Lieutenant Osborne has nothing to fear
srom him; for so far as we can learn,
he has returned only a sailor. His name
has never got into any of the papers.
Indeed, Blanche, you must give him up.'
`Not till he appears and fails to show
that he is without merit,' answered
Blanche with a quiet smile.
Archibald Worthington I know nothing
of,' answered Osborne in an indifferent
tone; he did behave very well I believe,
in some engagement early in the
war, but afterwards was put on shore
for some act of insubordination, and
since then I never have heard of him.'
`The story is false!' cried Blanche,
with a flashing eye.
`Do you give me the lie, Miss Talbot?
'
`Yes, if you state such an open falsehood!
I know it to be an untruth, a
base fabrication!
`I heard so, Miss, I only heard so.'
`And how do you knaw it to be false,
neice?' asked her aunt with surprise.
`It is no matter now. To-morrow he
will himself in person answer all questions,
and honorably defend himself from
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
all charges that envy or hatred may invent
to do him injury!'
`Really Blanche, you are quite spirited
in his defence; almost too much so,'
said the captain.
`Perhaps she thinks it necessary to
take the part of one who will be certain
never to appear to take his own,” said
Osborne sarcastically. `Be assured Captain
Talbot you will never see him. He
dare not show his face here, knowing
that one is here who can confront him!'
`And who is that one?' demanded
Blanche indignantly.
`Hist! I will have no sparring here.
I will wait till to-morrow and see what
this young sailor says of himself; for
he has sent me a present of a bag of
oranges, and word that I shall see him.'
`Very well, he may have the presumption
to come. But I think sir, that my
claim to your daughter's hand is too well
established to apprehend that you will
listen to him. He may seek to gain
favor with you by decrying and injuring
me, but—'
`He is too noble for such baseness;
and besides, his own high character is
sufficient basis for the favor he will seek
here,' answered Blache.
`The words and manner of Nelson
Osborne inspired Blanche with the most
intense dislike of him that almost amounted
to loathing. She knew nothing of
his character further than in one of Archibald's
letters to her, he had written and
then scratched out a few lines in reference
to him, by which, for she strove to
make out what he had erased as every
lady would, she learned that they had
met somewhere, and that Nelson had
done him an injury. This was all she
knew, but it was enough to prejudice
her against him.
She now turned away from Osborne
with an air of supreme contempt, and
said to her father,
`If you do not wish me any longer, I
will retire.'
`Well, go,' he answered kindly. `But
you must be up bright and early to have
your breakfast and go fishing.'
`I will be first at your door, sir, to
call you,' she answered, smiling; and
then kissing him and bidding him good
night, and her aunt also, she left the
room without deigning to cast a glance
at Osborne.
`I do not seem to be in very high favor
with Miss Blanche,' said he, trying
to turn off his chagrin with a laugh.
`It is nothing but maidenly coyness,'
answered her father. `She will feel better
to-morrow towards you. You have
quite taken her and all of us by surprise.
I hope you will join our party to-morrow.
We are going down the river to
pass the day pick-nicking and fishing,
and return home with the afternoon
tide.'
`I should be most happy, sir,' answered
Nelson, rising and bowing; `but I
trust, sir, you will use your influence
with Blanche to make her treat me more
civilly. Indeed, sir, I feel that I ought to
claim her at once as my wife.'
`Well, Blanche shall be talked to,
Lieutenant,' answered the Captain. `She
has somehow great hopes of Archy,
though I must confess, in my opinion,
you have won her, and I see no reason
why you should not have her. But as
she kissed me good night, she whisperpered
and said that if I would give no
decision till to-morrow, and then, if Archibald
Worthington did not present
higher claims to her hand than you
have done, she will consent to become
your wife. That is certainly very fair.'
`Yes, Captain. To-morrow, then, I
hope to receive her; for I am assured
that this Worthington is no better than
a common sailor. I will not fail to meet
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
you to go in the boat early in the morning.
'
With these words Nelson Osborne took
his leave, shaking hands both with the
Captain and Aunt Sarah.
When he got out of doors he gnashed
his teeth with rage, for he felt that he
was hated and that Worthington was
loved by the beautiful Blanche, and that,
after all his crimes and deceptions, she
could never be his. He trembled also
lest the return of Worthington should be
his ruin; but nevertheless resolved to face
him.
`If Archibald Worthington has returned
to this country,' mused Nelson
Osborne, as he slowly walked across the
bridge, he must be at his mother's. All
my hopes of Blanche, and my safety, too,
depend upon his non-appearance to-morrow.
I will not sleep to-night till I have
ascertained whether he be really at
home, as his negro's presence here, so
near his home, leads me to believe. If I
find him there, he shall never see
Blanche Talbot again. If he has as
many lives as a cat, I will have them
before I will see him married to her. I
can return before day, and in full time
to join the Captain's party on the water.'
With this resolution he turned aside,
after crossing the bridge, which after
nine o'clock was free of toll to all foot-passengers,
and so he passed unnoticed,
and walked rapidly down the river-road in
the direction of Hallowell.
Archibald Worthington was pacing,
with a true sailor's restlessness, up and
down the little gravel walk in front of
his mother's cottage, enjoying the moonlight
and watching the river for Cæsar's
return, who had then been gone full
time enough to get back. He was a
fine-looking young man, tall and manly,
with a frank, bold bearing, and the open,
pleasing countenance of a person of a
generous spirit. He was attired in the
undress uniform of an officer in the
United States navy, and carried in his
hand as he walked, for the night was
warm, his blue cap with its gold band.
The house before which he was walking
faced the water, and was situated a
little back from the river-road, with a
small yard before it, enclosed by a low
paling. The dwelling was of an extremely
humble character, being but one
story high, and white-washed. A few
flowers grew in the yard, and a vine of
the scarlet bean was trained to run up
one of the windows, and falling down
over it, nearly hid it from the passer-by
in a curtain of leaves Through the leaves
now sparkled a light in the room within.
Archibald Worthington loeked very
happy. He was once more at home: he
had found his mother well and everjoyed
to see him again. He was near Blanche,
too, and he had returned conscious that
he had merited her hand by his deeds of
valor.
`How Cæsar loiters,' he said, after a
long and close survey of the river above.
`I fear something may have occurred to
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
detain him. Perhaps he brings evil news,
and lingers with it lest he should bring it
to my ears too soon.'
`Archy, my dear son,' said a lady,
coming out of the door, `I fear you will
take cold in the night air.'
`Take cold, my dear mother,' he answered
with a smile at the idea of a
sailor's taking cold by being out of doors
at night; `why, sailors live out of doors
on their decks, mother. But if you only
wish me to come in to keep you company,
I will obey.'
`No, not if you prefer being out here.
You don't know how happy I am, Archy,
to see you once more before I die; and
then to see you return an officer. How
strange you never wrote to me, and that
I never heard of you, Archy dear.'
`I will tell you the reason to-morrow
or the next day, mother, after I have
seen Blanche. How Cæsar stays. Perhaps
they refused the gift.'
`He would then return the sooner.'
`You say that Blanche was not well
when you heard from her?' asked the
noble young man anxiously and tenderly.
`More beautiful than ever.'
`I hope, then, she is still so. `What
is that moving? It is a boat coming
round the point. It must be Cæsar. I
will run up the shore and meet him.'
`You have dropped your cap, Archy.'
`No mother, dear mother,' he answered,
hastening down to the shore, and then
up the beach in the direction of the approaching
boat. He soon saw that it contained
but one person, and in a few minutes
he recognised the individual to be
Cæsar.
`Pull in where I am, Cæsar,' he called
to him. `How long you have been.'
`Bress you, massa Archy, I hab nuff
to 'tain dis niggar! But wait till me
fasten um boat.'
And Cæsar rowed down parallel with
the shore to the boat flotilla in front of
the house, while Archibald walked on the
shore rapidly questioning him.
`Did you see Blanche? Did the Captain
accept the oranges? Did you tell
him who sent them? How did Blanche
look? What did she say? Did you give
her the note? Did she give you any
thing for me?'
To all which inquiries Cæsar replied
in detail; and having secured his boat,
he turned to his master and began to give
him a full account of what passed. It
was all very satisfactory to the youthful
lover; and when Cæsar took from his
hat the old piece of sail-cloth, and drew
from it the lock of hair, he caught it
from him and covered it with kisses.
`Dear, noble, generous, kind Blanche,'
he exclaimed with deep emotions of joy.
`But I haint told you all, massa,' said
Cæsar.
`No! What else?'
`I see dat marine what spose he hab
left you and me dead on the island!'
`What Osborne—Nelson Osborne?'
exclaimed Archibald with amazement.
`Yis, massa, jist dat same indiwidual.'
`Where? when? It is very strange.'
Cæsar then related to him the circumstances
of his meeting and recontr
with him; and in proof of his words he
took from the boat the sword he had captured.
`What can be his motive in being
here? How dare he when he is a murderer
in intention, and knows he is in my
power?'
`He spose you dead, you see, massa
Archy!'
`True! I see through it now! I
wonder if he has dared to go to the Captains?
'
`He won't be well received if he do,
massa, coz I tell massa Cap'n's sailor
man; Jack, he tell me his name be, all
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
'bout dis massa Osborne, and he said he'd
see how he come to his massa's!'
`I do not fear for my own position and
hopes in reference to Blanche, but I do
not wish them to be imposed upon by
one so utterly lost to virtue, honor, and
every noble trait of character as Nelson
Osborne has proved himself to be.'
This was said not to Cæsar, but spoke
rather to himself. He remained a few
moments silently reflecting upon the intelligence
which had been communicated
to him by Cæsar. He was confounded
at the assurance of Osborne in appearing
again in his native place, and evidently
with the view of seeking the hand
of Blanche. But when he reflected that
he supposed the only person he had to
fear was no longer living, he was less
surprised. To prevent him from imposing
upon Captain Talbot, he resolved to
go up early in the morning.
`Do you think the sailor told the Captain
what you narrated to him, Cæsar,
and so put him on his guard?'
`I sure ob dat, massa; coz he went
strait up to de house when I left him to
git into de skiff!'
`In that case they are safe: otherwise
I would go to night and warn them, or
send you!'
`I tink massa you send and hab him
'rested for murderin' us.'
`We are not yet killed, Cæsar, Heaven
be thanked. His intentions have been
signally defeated. I don't know that I
could on my own word without witnesses
convict him of his wicked purpose.'
`Dare is me, too, massa! I take my
oath on him!'
`We had best wait and see first what
to-morrow brings forth. I do not, if I
can help it, care to mix myself up with
any such troublesome affair, unless it be
found absolutely necessary for the protection
of society. I wish to have as little
to do with him as possible!'
`You best keep on your watch agea
him, massa Archy. He sure do you
some mischief.'
`Sir,' said one of two men who rode
up on horseback at that moment, for
Archibald was just crossing the road from
the water-side and entering the gate to
his mother's house, `will you tell me how
far it is to Augusta?'
`Two miles, sir,' answered Worthington
looking steadily at the men, whom he
saw were strangers, though he could not
discern then features very distinctly, as
a cloud was passing over the moon at the
time.
`Thank you, sir, answered the man,
in a bluff, strong voice like one who was
in the habit of talking freely and fearlessly
with all men. `Do you know sir,
if there is a Lieutenant Osborne recently
arrived at Augusta; for as you live so
near, you must doubtless be familiar
with all the news stirring there!'
`Lieutenant Osborne!' repeated Archibald,
`I do not know any such person,
sir!'
`Perhaps he may have dropped his
title this way, having no further use of
it,' responded the man. `Is there a Nelson
Osborne in Augusta?'
`Yes sir, I have just heard that there
is,' responded Worthington with surprise.
`Could you direct me the best way to
find him, after entering the village?'
`Probably at his mother's, sir! But
you just inquired for Lieutenant Osborn.
Are they one and the same! The one
I know cannot be an officer, for he is a
villain!'
`Oh, you seem to know whom we
want! They are not the same!' answered
the other person who had not
hitherto spoken. `You appear to be an
officer, sir! May I ask whom I have
the honor of addressing.
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
`I am a lieutenant in the navy, sir!
My name is—is—Worthington sir!'
`Then I will speak freely to you,
Lieutenant Worthington. I am lieutenant
Osborn. Last week on my arrival
in Boston I found that some person had
preceded me and assumed my name,
and representing my person, and lodged
at the hotel and received the courtesies
of several of the principal citizens. I
should not have complained of this greeting,
if he had been any thing like an
honest rogue; but it seems that after he
had left the city, on the very morning of
my arrival, it was discovered that he had
stolen a valuable diamond from one of
the hotel rooms and sold it to a jeweller
in whose possession it was found.
`Yes, I myself, found it,' said the
other.' I am an officer of the police!'
`Judge my surprise, sir, when I found
what had occurred, and that my name
had been made infamous! After satisfying
those interested that I was the true
Lieutenant Osborne, I resolved to follow
up the imposter; and as the police
also determined to seek him out to arrest
him, I started with them from Boston;
and we have succeeded in tracing
the gentleman thus far!'
`I found out before I left Boston,' said
the officer, `that the person who represented
Lieutenant Osborne was a certain
Nelson Osborne who came from
New York in a coasting packet, from
which he stole a watch belonging to the
skipper, and for which theft I have a
warrant for him, if I catch him! while
in the packet he said he was from Kennebec!
This information was of great
value to me in getting on the scent!'
`I am truly sorry, Lieutenant Osborne,
' said Archibald, `for the unfortunate
position you have been placed in
by this person who has abused your
name. This is not his first villany. But
it is not for me to revile him. I hope
you will succeed in arresting him. He
was seen not an hour since on the other
side of the river near the black-house.
He wore, says my man here, who saw
him, an infantry undress uniform. His
mother lives three houses above the
bridge on the left. He may he found
there! If you arrest him please let me
know when you return!'
`If I take him, I shall lodge him in
jail at Augusta till to-morrow, for we
both of us need rest,' answered the police
officer.
`I am greatly indebted to you Lieutenant
Worthington,' said the officer;
`we were fortunate in having spoken
with you. Good night sir!'
`Good night, gentlemen.'
The two horsemen now rode rapidly
forward. Archibald followed them with
his eyes until they were out of sight and
then turning to Cesar said,
`Well Cesar what do you think of all
this?'
`It very 'markable, massa Archy! I
I berry good of it. I hopes he get what
he desarves now sure!'
`It is very strange! What a thorough
villain Nelson has turned out to be.
Poor fellow! I am sorry for him, for I
cannot forget our school-boy-days. But
even then I saw the seeds of the fruit he
has brought forth. If he had truly loved
Blanche Talbot, he could never have
become the man of the evil heart and
evil hand he is! But he is about to
have his recompense! What a career
his has been!'
`He no be able to fight himself to be
an ossifer, massa Archy, and so he steat
anodder ossifer's name! I should'nt
wonder if he go and see Missy Blanche
wid dis lie in him mouth!'
`You have hit it! This must have
been all his mistake, Cesar. But we
shall know all to-morrow. Poor Osborne,
I pity him; but as he has sown so
he must reap.'
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
Nelson Osborne, whom we left pursuing
his way from the bridge along the
river road, in the direction of the house
of Archabald's mother, where he hoped
to find his rival, had got about half way
between the two villages when he beheld
two horsemen riding rapidly along the
road approaching. He had been so deeply
engaged in contemplating some plan of
surprising and murdering Worthington if
he should be at home, that the horsemen
were very near before he discovered
them.
Always suspicious, like all guilty men,
he would have turned out of his way to
avoid them, for he did not wish to be
seen by any one on the errand he was
engaged in, but at this part of the road
there were deep ditches and high fences,
so that it was not easy to avoid them.
He, therefore, resolved to pass on his
way boldly, bending his body forward
upon a huge cudgel he carried, as it he
was an old man, and slouching his cap
over his eyes.
The two horsemen came up, and drawing
rein, looked at him closely. The officer
kept on without quite stopping his
horse, but the police-officer, (for they
were the two persons who ten minutes
before had left Archibald Worthington at
his mother's gate) checking his horse,
said,
`Hulloh, old man: whither away so
late, hey?'
`Home, gentlemen,' muttered Osborne,
who did not at all like the salutation, or
the manner of it.
`Let me see your face. I am a Boston
police-offier, and I never let any face
pass me when I am on a hunt without
seeing who it belongs to. Old or
young, it makes no difference: man or
woman: for rogues hide themselves under
all disguises. Come, look up!'
`I am very decrepid,' answered Osbore
his voice trembling and unsteady,
but with fear rather than age, for he began
to suspect he might be after himself,
and he covered his face and stooped lower,
and hurried on.
`Then I will get down and see you,
lieutenant. Ride back. We may or
may not have bagged something here;
but it is best to be safe.'
As the officer spoke he leaped from
his horse, and advanced upon him, with
his hand on a pistol; for there was something
in him that awakened his suspicions
that all was not right; for your
keen police officer,
`Sees rognes in rock, traitors in trees,
And hears a thief's whisper in every breeze.'
Osborn in the outset of his expedition
had turned his coat to disguise himself
the more; but the keen eye of the police-officer
soon detected a glitter of the lace
in the moonlight. As the officer alighted
Osborne straightened himself and ran
like a deer. Lieutenant Osborne being
mounted pursued, while the police officer
regaining his saddle followed at full speed,
being sure that he had got his man, or at
least some other arrant rogue.
Osborne finding he would be over-taken
strained every nerve to reach an
opening in the fence that he knew led to
the river-side, when by diving into the
water he hoped to escape.
`It is our man, be sure,' said Lieutenant
Osborne, `he must not be suffered to
escape us.'
`Not if I have to bring him with a
bullet,' answered the police officer, as he
dashed past him, with his pistol in his
hand, and at a slapping pace. At this
instant Osborne reached the gab and
turned towards it; but he had not diverged
two yards from the road before
the officer, fearing he should lose him,
fired his pistol not at him, but over him
so as to alarm him. But a sharp cry of
pain told him that he had hit the fugitive.
Upon coming up they found him on the
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
ground, and bleeding profusely from a
wound in the hip, and evidently in great
pain.
`The ball must have struck this post
here and glanced,' said the officer, `for
I did not aim at him.'
`Both now dismounted, and the policeman
staunched the blood, before asking
him any questions.
`You should have hove to, my man,'
he said. `You grew young too quick
for an honest man.'
`Who are you?' asked the army officer.
`Who are you?' demanded Nelson,
doggedly.
`I am a Boston police-officer,' answered
the other. `I am after a certain Nelson
Osborn, otherwise Lieutenant Osborn,
and I am glad to have the pleasure
of meeting him. Don't deny your name
my good Sir, for I saw you at the Exchange
when I was in Boston, and for
that reason was selected to hunt you up.'
`Is it he?' exclaimed the army officer,
with surprise.
`It is, and no mistake. I could swear
to him anywhere. This has been a nice
night's work for us.'
Nelson Osrorne finding himself recognized
by the officer, did not deny
his identy, and, indeed, knew well if he
did so, it could only be for a brief period,
as they had only to take him to Augusta
to have it clearly decided who he was.
Though suffering from the wound,
which was very painful, but not dangerous,
he was able to ride after the officer
placed him on his horse, by which he
walked till they reached Augusta. Here
the police officer at once proceeded to
the prison, and placed him in custody of
the goaler, at the same time sending for
a surgeon. It was not until towards
morning that Nelson Osborne found
himself alone upon his pallet in his cell,
the surgeon and the goaler having left
him to that repose which he needed, but
which his pains and his conscious guilt,
with his fears of the future, would not
suffer him to enjoy. He had understood
from the officer the cause of his
arrest, and knew that in the future before
him, if he lived, lay years of imprisonment
and of toil, and of infamy.
The reflection that Blanche was lost to
him forever maddened him; and between
rage, pain, and fears unutterable,
he tossed upon his hord couch in a state
of the keenest torture.
Early the next morning, the day proving
fine, the Captain and his daughter,
accompanied by Aunt Sarah went down
on board the `wind-Eater,' for the purpose
of going on their excursion down
the river. Jack had got every thing
ready, the sails bent, and the locker supplied,
while the companion-way was
strewn with lines for all sorts of fish.
Upon reaching the boat, the old Captain,
finding the wind fair, would have
put off at once, but he could see nothing
of Osborne whom he expected would
have met him at the boat.
`I wonder where he is?' he at length
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
exclaimed, with some pettishness, `we must
go without him.'
`Who, father?' asked Blanche, for he
had not told her he had invited the young
man to be of the party.
`Nelson Osborne, or rather Lieutenant
Nelson Osborne. He should be here.'
`I am, for one, glad he is not,' she answered
very firmly.
`He is a great scamp, your honour,' said
Jack, `if he is the one I mean. I heard
all about him last night, and went up to the
house, you see, to tell you about him, coz
he was cruising about the place. But
findin' the dead-lights all in, and every
body gone to bed, I put it off till this
morning. He is a great rogue, your
honor.'
`How do you know that?' demanded
the Captain, with surprise.
`I got it from his nigger.'
`The negro had his reasons for abusing
him, I dare say,' said Aunt Sarah, who
had been very much taken with the young
man's uniform and his flattery, to say nothing
of his title of Lieutenant.
`No doubt he had, no doubt,' answered
the Captain,' and if this is all you
know, Jack, you had best belay your
queer talking. The young gentleman is
a man of honour, at least I shall think so,
until it is proved to the contrary. Come,
cast off, and let us make sail, if he is not
coming. I dare say he has over-slept
himself, or fallen in with some of his old
friends.'
The wind-eater was now unloosed from
her fastenings at the little pier, and Jack
aided by a lad whom he used to employ
as his `crew,' hoisted jib and fore-sail
and ran out from the shore. The main-sail
then followed, and the fine little
bark went merrily down the river before
a pleasant north wind.
The boat with its occupants was distinctly
seen by Nelson Osborne from the
window of his cell, which overlooked the
river, and towards which he crawled with
difficulty on account of his wound, remembering
his engagement, and wishing
to see if they embarked.
`There they go as happy and forgetful
of me as if I had never lived!' he
muttered bitterly. `They will soon, if
they have not already, hear what has become
of me. If my glances were curses
how I would like to annihilate them.—
This, then, is the end of all my hopes.
It would have been better, I see, for
me to have been honest and virtuous,
than to have tried by crime and fraud to
have win her. In pursuing the course
I have, I find I have only been playing
into Worthington's hands; for even if he
has not distinguished himself, he certainly
has not made a villain of himself
as I have; and so the hand of Blanche
will be his, while mine clanks with
chains.'
The Wind-Eater sailed down as far as
the Half-way Rock, and there by the captain's
order, came to, and anchored, the
main-sail being lowered and the fore-sail
trailed up, while the jib was left
hoisted to keep her stationary.
Blanche was too muce excited with
the prospect of seeing Archibald to give
her full attention to catching fish. She
lost no less than three hooks within the
first ten minutes; for her eyes were on
the green banks instead of the line, and
she was thinking more of discerning
Archy rowing up the river road than in
capturing fish.
`Blanche, girl, you will be more likely
to catch birds than fish, for you look
more at the woods than the water,' said
the captain.
`I never knew Miss Blanche to have
sich bad luck in hooks afore,' said Jack.
`There's Miss Sarah had caught a red
perch, and is as proud of it as if it was a
baby.'
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
`A what?—Why Jack!' exclaimed
the blushing spinster. `Really, if you
are so indelicate, I shall have to be set
on shore.'
`Capital Jack. But she wants to be
set on shore, I see, because there's two
fine young fellows coming down that
bank as if they'd break their necks.'
`What bank?' cried Blanche; and
looking in a direction above the path, on
which her eyes had hitherto been fixed,
she beheld two officers descending the
bank, followed by Cesar. At a glance
she recognised in the leading one, Archibald
Worthington though he had altered
so much for the better, that her heart
bounded with joyful admiration. The
other officer was a stranger.
`I am sure I did not see them before,'
said aunt Sarah, `I wonder who they
can be.'
`One is a naval officer and the other
an army officer! That is clear!' said
the Captain, who had dropped his line to
observe them.
`And I guess I know that navy officer,
your honor,' said Jack. `He looks
amazingly like Master Worthington!'
`So he does! It must be! But how
the deuce comes he to be in uniform?
Yet it must be he, Sarah, for look at
Blanche's face! She knows him, at
least! I will at any rate hail 'em and
ask 'em aboard!'
`Not for the world, brother! Dear
me!' cried the spinster, looking as if
quite shocked at the idea of having two
gentlemen on board. `Besides, it isn't
young Worthington. He can't be an
officer, that's certain!'
The boat was anchored about twelve
fathom from the Half-way Rock out in
the stream, and the two officers, who
were Worthington and Lieutenant Osborn,
were already upon the rock, both
raising their caps to the party.
`Come aboard, gentlemen, come
aboard!' said the Captain; `Jack, put
off after them in the yawl!'
Jack cast off a small green boat that
towed astern, and, springing into it,
sculled ashore. The officers, followed
by Cæsar, entered it, and in a few moments
were alongside the shallop.
`You are welcome, gentlemen!' said
the Captain, who was now satisfied that
one of them was indeed Worthington,
though he wondered and stared at his
uniform. `I am glad to see you back
again, Master Worthington!' As he
spoke he shook hands with Archibald as
he stepped on deck; and then offered
his hand to Lieutenant Osborne, though
Archibald, in his anxiety to speak to
Blanche, neglected to introduce.
`God bless you, dearest Blanche!' he
said, as he grasped both of the hands of
the happy girl, and holding them for a
moment in his while he gazed into her
face with all his heart in his eyes. `God
be thanked that I can see and speak with
you once more!'
Blanche did not speak. Her joy was
too great for utterance. But she eloquently
looked her happiness.
`And you, too, Miss Talbot,' said
Archibald, extending his hand to Aunt
Sarah, `how well you look. Time has
not troubled himself to make any change
in you, since I last saw you!'
`And you are looking so finely and
so handsome. Who would have thought
it?' said Aunt Sarah, quite flattered at
his words of commendation, and disposed
at once to feel kindly towards him. But
she wondered, as well as her brother, at
his uniform.
Blanche could not keep her fond eyes
from him, and thought how handsome
and noble-looking he had grown, and how
his beautiful uniform became him. These
were very happy moments for the faithful,
loving girl.
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
`I beg vour pardon, Captain Talbot,'
said Archibald; `but I should have introduced
my friend. `This is Lieutenant
Osborne, of the army. Doubtless you
have heard his name as one of the officers
who so highly distinguished themselves
in the battle of New Orleans.'
At this an exclamation of surprise escaped
all three, Blanche as well as the
father and aunt.
`Why, what does this mean?' cried
the Captain. `We have already had
one Lientenant Osborne. He was to
see me last night, and promised to have
been here to-day. Explain this, gentlemen,
for, in faith, you mystify me.'
`I will explain it, sir; for I see you
also have been imposed upon,' said
Lieutenant Osborne.
`But first, sir, how am I to know you
are Lieutenant Osborne?'
`Of that I will shortly give you proof;
but I will now say that I shall be the
guest to-day of Judge C—, who knows
me well, and to whom I will refer you.'
`That is enough, sir,' answered the
Captain.
`The person who came to you and
represented himself as a lieutenant, is a
fugitive from justice. His name is Osborn,
and tempted by the similarity of
name, he assumed my character and position
in Boston, and passed himself off
as myself upon the citizens, and even
was honorably spoken of in the papers.
While there he stole a vnluable diamond
and suddenly left the city. I arrived in
Boston two days afterwards, and found
my name intamous. I took a police officer,
and pursued the man who had so
deeply injured me, and succeeded last
night in capturing him, though not without
wounding him in his attempt to escape
from the officer. He is now lodged
in the gaol in our village, and will tomorrow,
if he is able, be removed to
Boston for trial; as he has had three
warrants issued against him.'
`Can this be possible?' exclaimed
Captain Talbot, who had listened with
amazement.
`It is true, sir. If you will return to
town you shall have proof of it; for I see
that he has imposed upon you, and it is
proper you should know what a villain
he is.'
`I am satisfied, sir: I am now convinced
that I have been imposed upon.
Sir, you have done me and mine a great
service—I was about to take this fellow
into my confidence and family.'
`No, dear father,' said Blanche; `only
if there were no other claimant who could
prove a better title to your confidence,'
said Blanche with a smile. `I suspected
him from the first.'
`I never will have any confidence in
man again,' cried Aunt Sarah. `Who
would have though it! I shall look on
every body as imposters after this!' and
she cast an ominous glance at Archibald.
`It is time for me to speak now and
advance my pretensions, I see,' said Archibald.
`If you will listen to me, I will
endeavor to prove to you all that I have
not been forgetful in the war that I had
two motives to valor—my country and
Blanche!'
`But how is it you return a sailor, as
Cæsar said you were?'
`An ossifer am still a sailor, massa,'
answered Cæsar with a broad grin.
`And are you indeed an officer?' asked
the captain. `I have been so deceived
I must be pardoned for doubting.'
`I will answer for him, sir,' said Lieutenant
Osborne: `This is Lieutenant
Worthington, of the United States Navy,—
and a more gallant officer is not in the
service.'
`And yet, Archibald, we have not
read your name in the papers.'
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
`For this reason, sir,' answered Archibald,
smiling; `and I will relate to
you what I have related to my friend this
morning; for you must know that he
spoke to me last night on his way to
Augusta with the police officer, and inquiring
about Osborne, informed me of
his character and of their intentions.
Fearing Nelson might have imposed on
you, I could not rest, and at day proceeded
to learn of you if he had imposed
on you.
On the way I passed the gaol and called
to know if he had been taken, where
I met this gentleman at the door, and we
instantly by day-light recognised one
another as having both dined with each
other ten days before in Washington; for
he was there receiving his commission
and I mine. The meeting was a gratifying
one, and he having informed me
of Osborn's arrest, I gave him as we
breakfasted together a brief account of
my own history, and of my hopes in
reference to Blanche! He started to go
with me to your house when the toll-keeper,
of whom we inquired if you were
at home pointed to your boat down the
river; and hither we hastened, I to lay
my claims before you sir, for Blanch's
hand, and Lieutenant Osborne to remove
the stigma upon his name brought upon
it by Nelson's assumption of it; if by
chance he had appeared cefore you in
the assumed character, and also to bear
testimony that I am the Lieutentant Archer
whom he met in Washington!'
`Lieutenant Archer,' repeated the
Captain.
`Lieutenant Archer,' exclaimed Aunt
Sarah.
Blanche made no exclamation of surprise.
She merely smiled and looked
very happy.
`Yes, Captain Talbot,' said Lieutenant
Osborne. `This is the William Archer
of whose promotion you have doubtless
heard!'
`This is more and more perplexing,'
said the Captain looking from one to the
other with a bewildered exprassion.—
`Gentleman this needs explanation!—
There seems to be a changing and assuming
of names all round! If you can
prove yourself, Archibald Worthington
to be honorably this same William Archer
I have read of, you have my daughter
for you have fairly won her.'
`Read, if you please that commission
of my rank as Lieutenant in the Navy,
sir.'
`Read it, Blanche! But no, I won't
believe any eyes but my own. You will
cheat me!'
The Captain then put on his spectacles
and opening the parchment, first
glanced at the signatures, then the huge
tofficial seals, and the imposing aspect of
he splendid copper-plate heading. He
then read aloud the words of the commission
in their usual form; but when he
came to the sentence which read to W.
Archibald Worthington, late known as
William Archer, &c., he looked round
with surprise.
`Why how is it, boy! Have you had
two names? Are you then this William
Archer?' cried the Captain, his eyes
sparkling with joy.'
`Yes sir. My real name is William
Archibald though every body has called
me only by the middle name since I was
a child. I kept the usual name until one
day I was upon an island getting water
for the ship, when Nelson Osborn, who
was a marine in the same ship, and no
doubt sought the ship and came on shore
for his purpose, led me aside to show me
as he said, a large quantity of silver he
had found in a cave.
Osborne had professed the warmest
friendship to me for months before, having
professed to think no more of Blanche
and no longer to consider me in the
light of a rival. I believed him, and
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[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
when he asked me to go with him, I went
without suspicion. I crept into the cave,
which was a low narrow orifice under a
cliff, when instantly I found myself in
darkness, and he called out to me that `I
was now safe, for he had let an over-hanging
rock previously loosened by him,
and propped, drop in front of the mouth;
and wishing me a `happy new year,' for
it was new year's day, he said he would
now return home and fear no rival for
Blanche's hand!'
`Can this be possible!' exclaimed the
captain with horror.
`He will be made to confess it,' answered
Archibald.
`And how did you escape from that
horrible place!' cried the captain, while
Blanche sat pale and trembling, as if her
lover was still in peril.
`Cesar saved me! Tell them Cesar!'
`I misses massa Archy after few minnit,
' said Cesar, `and when somebody
say he walk of wid de naime I spects
someting, coz I al'ays hab my 'spicions
ob dat soger, and tell massa Archy, but
he hush me up and say he him berry
good friend. So I goes arter em, and I
comes in de wood, and den I soon meets
de marine runnin toward me alone! I
stand afore him and axes him `whar
massa Archy!' But stead o' answerin,
he make at me wid his baggonet and
run me froo de arm, sayin, `I kill you
too and you can go and wait on you'
master!' But I show fight, break him
baggonet and cut him wid my knife, but
he beat me ober de head wid de but ob
him gun and lef me dead! But he no
kill Cesar all ober. By'm by I come to
myself! Den I hears sombody holler.
I 'cognise master's voice under ground,
and dreful hard work I hab to get him
out; but I got him at last!'
`Yes, wounded as the faithful fellow
was,' said Archibaid, he worked for
twelve hours to remove the rock and re
store me to liberty. But our ship had sailed
for it was morning before I was relieved.
We remained seven weeks on the island,
living on roots and turtles, and finally
were taken off by a French brig which
landed us at Porto Rio where I found a
merchant vessel that took me to Norfolk.
Here I shipped again, but under the
name of William Auber, for I supposed
Archibald Worthington was dead, and I
said to myself, I will earn a distinguished
name as William Archer, and when
Blanche and the Captain hear of my
deeds they will little suspect who it is
that they commend! On my arrival at
Washington I told my story to the Secretary
who had my commission made out
to me as you see!'
`This is wonderful. But you have
written to Blanche, eh?'
`Yes; for I was so fortunate after
being four months at sea to do some service
for which the captain recommended
me for promotion; and then I wrote
Blanche, telling her my history thus far.'
`Then she has known all along that
William Archer was yourself. Oh, you
baggage.'
`Who would have thought!' exclaimed
Aunt Sarah.
We now close our novelette with but
a few words more. Nelson Osborne
never left the prison but to be borne to
his grave; his wound having inflamed
and afterwards mortified. He died confessing
the wrongs done to Worthington
and asking his forgiveness, exhibiting to
all those who came after him the truth
that vice always overreaches itself and
virtue alone meets with honorable recompense.
In a few weeks afterwards
Blanche was led to the altar by the happy
Archibald, and at the wedding the
old captain forgot his gout and danced a
minute with aunt Sarah for a partner.
THE END.
-- --
HENRY TEMPLE: OR, A FATHER'S CRIME.
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
BY J. H. INGRAHAM.
Entered according to Act of Congress by Williams Brothers, in the Clerk's
Office in the District Court of Massachusetts.
CHAPTER I.
It was Christmas night. The cold
wind whistled through the streets,
heaping the light, icy snow into drifts
and blocking up the passages into the
narrow lanes. But few persons save
the well-clad watchmen were abroad,
though the nine o'clock bell had not yet
rung. Here and there only, a passenger,
muffled to the eyes, hurried on his
way. The street lamps burned dimly,
the glasses being nearly coated with a
stratum of fine snow, through which the
rays came feebly. The windows that
faced the streets were closely curtained,
and those which had blinds were closed
by them as if the inmates would exclude,
in the sense of comfort within, the consciousness
of the storm that was raging
without.
Near the corner of a street with a
broad, open space at his left, stood a
watchman nestled under a door-way.
He was a tall, heavily-built man, and
his naturally large size was augmented
by the huge buffalo skin overcoat and
cap which enveloped his form and came
down about his ears and eyes. The
shelter he had sought did not protect him
from the snow, which, whirling and eddying
around the corner, fell upon him
and covered him with so thick a white
coat of it, that he resembled more a
huge polar bear standing upon his hind
legs, than a human being. His arms
were folded upon his chest, and beneath
one of them was visible the handle of
his weapon of office, a short, heavy
staff of white oak, shod with a spear
head and hook of polished iron.
He had been standing there for some
time, like a statue in a niche,—so long,
indeed, that the fast falling snow had
obliterated upon the pavement the deep
track of the last passer-by. The part
of the city where he was stationed was
the most ancient portion and intersected
by numerous narrow and crooked streets
and alleys, built up on either side with
closely-crowded wooden buildings, mostly
with their gable ends to the street,
and seldom more than two stories in
height. The house in the door nook of
which he sought shelter, was one of the
oldest in the town. It was built not unlike
an ancient block-house, the lower
story being many feet less in breadth
and length than the second, thus leaving
the floor of the second projecting tar
over the first, giving room for many
persons to stand underneath its piazza-like
ceiling. This old building stood on
the corner of a street and a square, and
its second story projected several feet
over the sidewalk on both sides. Above
the second story the house towered sharply
into three separate gables, on one of
which was the date of its construction,
1689. The front was rough stuccoed
and painted a dark blue color. The
lower story was much sunken into the
earth by age, and the support at the
angle seemed ready to yield and topple
the whole quaint old pile over into the
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street. But the watchman from his
composure and air of security did not
seem to feel any such apprehensions. It
was a good shelter for him and doubtless
had been for his successors for full
a century and a half.
The prospect from his position was
by no means a very interesting one. Old
buildings congregated in odd groups
were faintly visible by the fitful glare of
the street lamps; and to his left, down
the square, towering darkly to the skies
till its cupola was lost in the gloom of
the atmosphere, stood Faneuil hall, solemn
and stern.
`It's a tough night to stanb watch, or to
move abroad either way,' said the watchman,
talking to himself by way of beguiling
the time and cheering his loneliness.
`I hope I shall get through my
beat without being disturbed by rogues
breaking in. What is that? Oh, only
a shutter of this old three-cornered house
creaking in the wind. It sounded like
the creaking of a man's shoe. Confound
these snow-storms! they get up all sorts
of sounds, At one moment I hear some
chap a whistling. I listen, and it's the
wind. Then, by-and-by I hear a whispering
as if two thieves were planning
together. I creep along to surprise 'em,
and it's the wind again, sighing, perhaps,
between loose shingles. Then I hear a
buzzing of gruff voices, and when I
think they are just upon me, I find it
has been the wind. Then again I sometimes
think I hear a baby crying, and
then a distant shriek like a woman hollering
murder. So the wind keeps it up
and gives a poor devil more trouble than
all the rogues in the city put together.'
Here an unusually heavy blast tore a
loose shutter from a window of the old
house, and hurled it with violence and
great uproar, to the ground at his feet.
The watchman at first startled, in a
moment recovered himself, and was leav
ing his nook to pick it up when, the wind
lifting it, turned it over two or three
times and left it in the street.
`Let it lay. It is not worth the going
after. I dare say it is a hundred years
old. If people can't keep their shutters
fast it is none of my business to pick 'em
up for 'em if they are blown away. Hulloa!
here comes some one through the
storm, who looks ae if she would blow
away in earnest. I wonder what can
bring any body out such a night as this
is. Nothing but death or the doctor.'
The watchman ceased speaking, and
watched the person who was approaching.
It was a female, and by the faint rays of
the lamp she was scantily dressed. A
small hood and a thin dress that the wind
entwined about her limbs was all her
covering. She seemed scarcely able to
struggle against the storm, yet still held
on her way with perseverance. She came
nearer and nearer the watchman, when
her eyes fell on the shutter already halt
buried in the drift. With a sharp, glad
cry she sprung towards it and drew it
from the snow, and raised it in her arms.
The force of the wind bearing upon it
overthrew her with it; but with a struggle
she rose again, and placing it edge-wise
to the wind, she turned back the way
she had come, and hurried like a spectre
across the dark square.
`That poor woman has got only what
is God's gift,' said the watchman. `I
will let her go off with it, even if I have
to pay old Jarvey for it myself if he
should ask me what became of it after it
was blown off.'
`Thief! stop thief! Ho, watchman?
ho! Where are you?' cried a shrill,
cracked voice from the window which
had parted with the shutter. `Stop her:
stop her. There she runs across the
square with my shutter. Stop thief, stop.'
The watchman sprang out from his
shelter into the street, and looked up to
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[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
the window, at which, with a lantern in
his hand, that shot its feeble glance out
into the snowy atmosphere, stood a little
shrivelled old man with a white worsted
night-cap on, covering his ears, and an
old green baize wrapper gathered by the
fringes with one hand close about his
throat. The snow was beating into his
sharp, thin face, and the wind sweeping
his long, coarse, gray locks about his eyes.
`What is the matter, Uncle John?'
cried the watchman.
`Matter? Thieves! Robbers!' cried
the old man in the same sharp, angry
tone, sharper and more angry than the
winds that howled about his domicile.
The wind has torn off one of my shutters.
I heard it go. I got up to look, and what
should I see but a woman—a thief carrying
it off—running away with it as fast
as she could go. Stop her, watch! stop
her! She has gone up Flag Alley. She
went in that direction. Thieves, I say!
thieves! Why don't you run after her,
and bring back my shutter.'
And the little man danced up and
down with furious excitement, shook his
lantern at the watchman, and then his
fist, and sputtered unintelligible words
which the storm drowned.
`Let the woman go, Jarvey. She, I
dare say, wants it for fire-wood.
`Wants it for fire-wood. Wants my
shutter for fire-wood! Yes, yes! a pretty
how to do. Because people want, they
may steal. A pretty pass. I'll complain
of you. You connive! You are an
abetter! What are you there for if not
to catch thieves! and here you let one
go without moving a foot.'
`The shutter is not worth a ninepence,
Mr. Jarvey,' answered the watchman.
`I'll pay you for it.'
`A ninepence! It's worth two dollars.
Well, well, I'll report you, sirrah. I'll
break you. If you don't do your duty
I'll do it for you.'
With these ominous words uttered in
a tone of the bitterest rage, and in a voice
that sounded more like the creaking of
a rusty hinge than human articulation;
John Jarvey, the miser, and dealer in old
iron, rags and feathers, shut down his
window and disappeared from it.
`Now, I shall get into a scrape,' said
the watchman, just for being good natured
and having pity on that poor woman;
for poor she was I know by her scanty
dress; poor she was I know by her picking
up a shutter; poor she was or she
would not have been abroad in this cold
storm; and I saw her pale thin face was
full of sorrow. How it brightened at the
sight of the old shutter. But if I don't
go after it I shall lose my place, for old
Jarvey is merciless, and I am too poor
myself to lose the dollar a night I earn.
He is stumbling down stairs. I will tell
him I will go after the woman and get
his shutter.
As he spoke the bolt inside of the door
against which he had been leaning was
drawn sharply back, and the old iron
dealer appeared, wrapped in an old black
short cloak and a battered fur cap pulled
down on his ears, so that only his little
grey, hard eyes and the tips of his nose
and chin were visible. Thick mittens
were on his hands. In one hand he held
a small bull's-eye lantern. His height
was about five feet and an inch or two,
and his thin legs were shrivelled to the
mere anatomy of the bones.
`You are a pretty watchman, sirrah!'
croaked Mr. Jarvey; `we'll see to-morrow!
'
`I will go after the woman, if you say
so,' said the watchman.
`Say so! I do say so! You must
go, or I will—you can follow her by her
tracks in the snow.'
`I'll pursue her,—you go in again and
I will bring back the shutter.'
`Bring it back aint enough,—you must
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[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
bring her back,—you must arrest her!
To let the thief go is a criminal offence.
Bring back the thief too!
`I will try and catch her.'
`You must catch her—I'll go with you
and you shall catch her! Come, sir,
come! A pretty to do when a citizen
has to get out of his bed o' nights, and
such a night as this! to pursue thieves
that steal right under a watchman's
eyes!'
`Well, sir, I'll take her, you may be
sure,' answered the watchman, who felt
like pitching the little miserly old fellow
into the snow drift. He would gladly
have let the woman escape; but he saw
that unless he pursued her and recovered
the shutter, he should be reported by
Jarvey and lose his place, which he could
not afford to part with, as he had a large
family of his own.
He, therefore, prepared to go after the
wretched woman, but his heart burning
with resentment against the inexorable
cruelty of the man who would compel
him to arrest her. He felt too that he
must try diligently and earnestly to find
her and recover the shutter, and also take
her into custedy; for if he purposely delayeo
or slighted the pursuit to give her
time to get quite away, and the snow
time to cover up her tracks, he would be
blamed for not having caught her when
he could have done so, and so equally
be subjected to the censure of the city
authorities.
Therefore he felt that if he pursued at
all he must pursue in earnest; though
it was going heavily against his heart to
do it.
`You had best not go, Mr. Jarvey,'
he added, seeing the old man step out of
the door.
`Yes, yes—I'll go to! I want to see
that you do your duty. A pretty pass
when citizens have to watch the watchmen!
'
As he spoke he removed the key of
his door from the inner side of the lock,
and placing it in the outer wards, locked
the premises and placed the key in his
pocket.
`Now, come—come! I'll follow the
tracks with my lantern. Look sharp
you too,—if she aint found you'll have to
answer for it to the city.'
`I'll find her, Mr. Jarvey!' answered
the watchman in a deep tone, as if he
spoke with strong feeling. `I'll find her,
sir, if she's above the earth!'
And David Dalton, the stout, honest
watchman, firmly resolved to execute his
purpose to the letter. He knew that unless
he arrested the woman, his own
hearth-stone would need firewood also;
and he had many little bodies to keep
warm, and many hearty mouths to feed.
The miser took the lead across the
square, with the lantern, holding it close
to the ground. They passed under the
lofty walls of Fanueil Hall, and so entered
the narrow avenue known as Flag
Alley. The foot-prints of the woman
were traced up the Alley, and once was
seen the imprint of the end of the shutter,
where it had dropped from her grasp into
the snow. Half way up the Alley the
footsteps were obliterated by the wind,
as if the same kind power which had unhinged
the shutter and cast it into the
street for her, would now favour her
escape, covering her foot-prints with
friendly fingers.
`I've lost 'em,' said old Jarvey, poking
about with his bull's-eye lantern close to
the ground.
`Perhaps you can't see without your
glasses—I'll find them,' answered David,
with a sort of stern sadness in his tones.
`I have a lantern brighter than yours.'
As he spoke he took a dark-lantern
from beneath his coat, raised the slides,
and cast a bright glare upon the snow in
the Alley. The faint trace of the track
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[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
was now visible, and following it a few
yards, they saw it turn into a narrow
passage, between a wretchedly old house
and a high board fence. David entered
the narrow way, closely followed by the
iron-monger, scuffling at his heels and
muttering,—
`To steal my shutter! I'll have her
put in prison for this, that I will—for life,
if I could! Bread and water and hard
labor—nothing less!'
CHAPTER II. THE ABODE OF POVERTY DISCOVERED.
Old Jarvey and the watchman followed
the track up the narrow passage
way, between a row of old houses and a
high board fence. The miser kept his
body stooping close to the snow that he
might not miss the tracks, notwithstanding
Dalton went on before and kept
them in sight by the aid of his lantern.
`Do you still find 'em?' shrieked out
the little man. Look sharp coz she may
ha' turned in some o' these dog holes,
or climbed the fence.'
`Don't fear, old gentleman,' responded
David, with utter contempt for the
miserable wretch who was using all this
vigilance to recover an old broken shutter
that was not worth a sixpence for any
thing but fire word, and to find and
throw into jail the miserable creature
who had taken it from the snow where
the charitable winds had cast it.
`There is the mark here where she
set it down to rest,' said David. `She
must ha' been a poor, weekly thing, Mr.
Jarvey, not to be able to carry it, for it
was dried till it was like pith for lightness.
It is three times we've seen the
mark where she has set it down in the
snow. Suppose, sir, we let her go.
Doubtless she needed it to warm her
children or cook by.'
`Children? Humph! what business
has a poor woman with children if she
can't support 'em without stealing? why
don't she give 'em to the poor house?
No, no! Cook by? Any body that
has vittals to cook can get fire-wood.
They are not so poor. But if she was—
if it was to keep her from starving and
freezing to death. I tell you, I will have
my shutter and have her in gaol for
thieving.'
`You are a hard-hearted man, Mr.
Jarvey.'
`Hard-hearted! Yes, yes! I would
rather be hard-hearted then soft-hearted
if looking after one's own is hard hearted.
The best reputation a man can
have is that of being hard-hearted. People
will let him alone. He'll never lose
his money and property. There was
my father, now, had the reputation of
a `clever man!' It was the ruin of
him. Every body borrowed his tools
and never brought 'em back because he
was a clever man! They borrowed
money and never paid, him because he
was a clever man. He would ride
through the streets in his market-wagon,
and all the boys in town would climb up
upon it and steal his apples and nearly
break his horse down because, forsooth,
he had the reputation of a `clever man.'
It was the ruin of him, sir. His kindness
was his destruction. He died not
worth a penny!'
`I would rather be the father than the
son, nevertheless,' said David.
`Yes, yes: I dare say, but I would'nt,'
chuckled the iron-monger. `But we've
got to the end o' the alley. What do
you find? Look sharp, David Dalton,
for if you slack your duty from pity, I'll
complain to the town. So you've got to
find the thief or lose your place.'
`Don't threaten me, Mr. Jarvey. I'll
find her don't fear,' answered David,
hardly able to suppress his indignation,
but feeling that he must find her or lose
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[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
his place; and when he thought of his
little family at home he nerved himself
anew to the search.
He had come to the end of the alley
where a narrow broken flight of steps
led to a sort of plank platform running
round the second story, of an old wooden
tenement on the alley. By lifting his
lantern above his head he could see that
a door opened from this loose platform
into the upper rooms of the house. The
stairs inclined so, that he thought no one
could ascend them in safety, until he discovered
upon the steps the tracks of the
pilferer of the shutter. The marks of
the shutter as it was dragged up after her,
were also visible.
`Here the poor wretched woman lives,'
said the humane watchman to himself.
`I would rather lose ten dollars out-right,
poor a man as I am, than follow her any
farther. But it must be done. I can't
lose my place, and I shall lose it, if Jarvey
makes oath that I let the thief go
without pursuing her. Nothing can save
me, but I shall be dismissed, and then I
may have to go and hunt up shutters to
burn; for in these hard times there is
five men to do one man's work, and the
four have to live as they can.'
`I see the tracks! Oh, see 'em!'
cried the little man pressing forward, as
David stood by the stairs reluctant to go
up. `She's gone up these steps! I see
the marks where she dragged my shutter!
'
`Yes. I see them, too, Mr. Jarvey!'
`Hark! they are splitting it up. Don't
you hear 'em? What bold thieves!
Every soul of 'em in the house ought to
go to gaol, if they aint bigger than a baby
a week old. The whole hoard shall go.
Come, push on and stop 'em splitting it
up; coz I shan't get pay for it, and I
want to get it back whole. I can't afford
to lose my shutter. If they spoil it you
shall pay for it, David Dalton. Up! up!
Quick! You go first.'
David began to mount the steps, the
miser cowardly withdrawing behind, so
that if any danger menaced the worst of
it should fall upon the watchman. The
steps bent and creaked beneath the heavy
tread of David, and when he had gone
up five of them, he stopped fearing they
would give way. But shaking the frame
work strongly, and finding it stand the
shock he continued to mount up, followed
by the timid, but cruel and hard-hearted
iron-monger.
The platform on which they arrived,
was a narrow gallery such as is often
built along the sides of carpenters' and
other shops in country towns. It was
covered a foot deep with snow, and at the
farther end of it it had drifted to a level
with the window. A door and this window
were all the openings in the side of
the tenement, which was an old fashioned
gable, two and a half stories in height.
The eves were so low that David's hat
came even with them, and he could lay
his hand upon the roof.
There were no steps in the snow upon
the platform save those of the person
who bore the shutter. These though
half-drifted over again led directly to the
door; and by the side of the door was
visible the mark in the snow where she
had rested the shutter while she lifted
the latch.
`Softly, or she may take the alarm and
we shall lose her,' said old Jarvey laying
his hand upon the watchman's arm as he
was about to lift the latch.
`I have made up my mind old man to
arrest the woman, so do not plague me
with your doubts,' answered David angrily;
and in his heart, as he saw the miser
slip a little upon the snow and got his
foot through a crack between the boards,
he wished that he would tumble down
and break his neck.
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[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
A faint light now began to glimmer
through the window upon the snow
mouldings of the railings of the gallery,
and the sounds of breaking boards fell
upon the ears, while the light waxed
brighter, and then the cheerful crackle
of the flames were heard.
`Quick, quick! They will burn up
my shutter!' cried old `Feather-Few,'
such being his popular designatum in the
town, from a habit he had of giving short
weight in the feathers sold.
David, however, instead of opening
the door ot once, moved softly along to
look in at the window. Jarvey seeing
his object stepped along after him. The
window was much broken and filled up
with paper and rags, but between them
were many little openings by means of
which David got a peep into the interior
of the room.
He gazed a minute or two and then
removing his face from the aperture said
in a husky voice,
`Look in there, Mr. Jarvey.'
The old man stood on tiptoe and peered
in. They could not be seen from the
interior inasmuch as the snow and dirt
heaped upon the few remaining panes,
destroyed their transparency.
`I see the thief! She has half-burnt
up my shutter!' cried Jarvey, in a querulous,
angry tone. `You shall pay for it,
David Dalton. It is good for nothing
now. I'll have her in gaol, but you shall
pay for it.'
`Hist, I will pay for it. Look there
in silence awhile, and I will watch them
too, through this opening,' he said, finding
an aperture by softly drawing out the
sleeve of an old jacket.
The old man's eyes rested only upon
the blazing fragments of his shutter, as
they sparkled and crackled on the fire-place—
a wretched fire-place it was—
whose bleak and rude aspect the light
plainly revealed. It revealed also the
miserable apartment and furniture, if a
table, two or three chairs, a broken bedstead
covered with a straw pallet, and
three or four utensils for cooking could
be called furniture. The walls which
had once been plastered now revealed
the lathing in huge scathes along the
walls, while the ceiling was entirely divested
of it. The floor was of rough
boards and black with age, and the fireplace
of crude brick-work, the mantle
and all the carpenter-work having been
piece by piece taken down and consumed
in the fire-place by children of poverty,
either those who now crouched about
the burning shutter, or the former tenants
of the ruined room.
David turned his eyes from the wretched
walls and furniture, with the firelight
in all their barren poverty, to rest
them upon three figures hovering over
the flames upon the hearth.
Upon the side of the fire-place towards
the window, sat upon a broken stonejar,
a very large framed, broad-backed
woman, her head tied up in an old red
and blue cotton pocket-handkerchief, the
ends of which hung down her forehead,
even below her eyes. She sat down to
the fire from time to time, putting upon
the cheering warm flame, a piece of
Father Few's shutter, which lay by her,
and which she tore to pieces as the flame
needed feeding. She would then stretch
her hands out to warm them with the
additional heat. Her profile could only
be seen, and that but uncertainly, on account
of the corner of the low-falling
handkerchief, and a patch over the eye.
In front of the fire-place sat a small,
delicate, fragile woman, pouring from
a paper parcel, about a pint of beans into
a stew-pan, which was filled with snow.
David instantly recognised her as the person
who had taken the shutter. She was
about thirty seven or eight years of age,
with dark soft eyes, and the remains of
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beauty destroyed by starvation and sorrow.
She was speaking to the other, but
David could not hear for the wind and
storm what she said, but he saw that she
looked glad and happy, as she raised
her eyes to the other's face, and continued
to prepare the mess of beans. He
then put his ear to the opening instead of
his eye, and heard her say the following
words, in a pleasant manner:
`Don't put on too much wood, dear,
for it is hot enough to melt the snow and
boil the beans! Oh, what a nice meal
we shall have after eating nothing since
morning, and then only a herring. God
sent that shutter for me!' she said, putting
the pan with the little mess of beans
on the fire, with an air of satisfaction as
if it was the nicest dish ever cooked for
a King's table.'
`Do you hear that, Feather-Few?'
asked David in his stout blunt way, for
he said that the Iron-monger following
his example had turned his ear to the
broken pane. `She says God sent for
the shutter, and I believe so too! I should
think it woold make your heart feel good
to see what happiness your old shutter
has produced. See! how they enjoy
the fire it makes! Bless them, how
warm they are getting! It is a good end
the old shutter has come too, Mr. Jarvey;
and as it is the first time any thing
belonging to you has done any body any
good, I would if I were you just let em
enjoy it, just to feel how a charitable act
makes a man feel about the heart. It
must be a new feeling to you Mr. Jarvey!
'
`The women both shall go to jail,'
answered Feather-Few who could think
of nothing, heed nothing but the destruetion
of his property before his eyes.
`Come, ain't you goin' to break in upon
em,' I'm shiverin standin here!'
`Suppose we let 'em cook their mess,
Mr. Jarvey. It'll do em good! I don't
like to take em looking so starved. But
bless me, what is thst an angel!'
`A gal!—another jail bird! Three
on em!'
The person who had called forth the
exclamation of surprise and admiration
from David was a young girl of seventeen
or eighteen years, of exquisite beauty.
In feature and figure, she was faultless,
though her dress was of the most ordinary
description. She had just come
into view from behind the jam of the chimney
where she had been hitherto concealed
by it. In her hands she held a
flat piece of tin in which was spread a
corn cake, which from her bare arms
and the meal upon her hands she had
been mixing upon a sort of shelf the edge
of which was visible, protruding beyond
the chimney flue.
As the fire light shone upon her face,
as she stooped to place the cake so that
it might bake at the glowing coals of
Feather-Few's shutter, David thought
that he had never seen a face so beautiful,
not even that of his own daughter
whom in his paternal pride he believed
the handsomest lass high or low in Boston.
She spoke, and David substituted his
ear again for his eye. Her voice was
extremely musical.
`Do you not feel chilled quite through,
dear mother?' she said, looking up
fondly into the face of the female who
had taken the shutter from the street.
`It was a fearful night for you to go
out!'
`No, I am quite warm! The exertion
in bringing it here warmed me completely,
dear Anny. And then it made
me warm to think how we could have a
fire and have our meal cooked!'
`I feel that Providence directed you
to this shutter! I think we should have
perished without it, and poor Henry too!
-- 081 --
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He will have something to eat when he
wakes! Now he is getting better his
appetite is coming to him!'
`Poor dear boy! I wish I had something
to give him to eat whenever he
wants it! But we must not complain!
we shall always find food and shelter,
my child! God will not wholly desert
us!'
`To-morrow, now I can leave Harry,
I shall try and get some work, if it is to
make a shirt for three cents! Three
cents will keep us from starving, mother!
The employers at the shop will
give me that, though they said that for
every article they wanted made there
were a dozen applicants, ready to take it
at any price!'
`These are, indeed, periless hard
times! And then we have such a cloud
hanging over us on account of poor
John!'
`Mother! Anny!' called a voice from
the bed in the corner.
David turned his glance in that direction
and saw a boy, about twelve years
old, rise up on his elbow, and gaze bewildered
towards the group at the fire.
He looked wasted by sickness, but his
countenance was as handsome as that of
the maiden.
`I'm coming, dear mother,' responded
Annie; and as she hastened to the
bed-side, David saw, with a shock of
deep emotion, that she was lame. Lovely
in face and figure as she was, she
was after all a cripple! This at once
accounted to him for her remaining
within when the delicate mother braved
the storm to seek fire-wood.
`What a brave fire! Did God send
it?' he asked, in tones so touching, that
tears came into David's eyes.
`Yes, brother! And you shall have
something good to eat in a few minutes,'
she answered, patting him upon the temples
and kissing them. `Mother would
go out in the snow to find wood, and she
saw a shutter in the street and brought
it home!'
`Blessed shutter!' cried the little fellow.
`I shall eat and you will eat, and
we shall be warm and happy. Blessed
shutter!'
`Hear that, sir! Hear those words
Mr. Jarvey!' demanded David, in an im,
pressive tone.
CHAPTER III. THE CIRCLE ABOUT THE HEARTH-STONE.
The tall, stout woman in the corner
was in the meanwhile breaking up in her
hands, piece by piece, one the panels of
the shutter, and laying it upon the fire,
not with lavish waste, but with an air of
close, calculating economy of the fuel.
The mother watched cheerfully the
seething stew, and occasionally reached
over to see how the maiden's corn-cake
was coming forward. Altogether, it was
a scene of happiness! Poverty, cold and
starvation had been driven from the spot
by Feather Few's shutter.
`Do you see, Mr. Jarvey, how much
good your shutter has done? You have
not done so much yourself in all your
life. So let the good that is here done
be done, and let us go our way; though
first I would recommend you, if you
want to sleep sound, to leave with them
a five dollar note. They can buy wood
and food with it, and will not be tempted
to steal; though I do not call this stealing,
what has been done to-night!'
`You're as bad as the rest,' cried Jarvey,
in a loud tone. A pretty watchman,
to defend theft! I want to know
if you're going to go in and take up that
woman? Do it at once, or lose your
place, David Dalton!'
This was spoken in an elevated tone;
and David, who was still looking through
the window, saw by their startled looks,
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that they had overheard his words above
the racket of the storm. Every eye
was turned quickly and alarmingly to
the window.
`Yes, I must do it, I suppose,' answered
David, `and now as well as
any time.'
He left the window and approached
the door. Feather-Few came close to
his heels. David opened his lantern to
find the latch, and then pressed upon
the door to open it, as the latch did not
lift up.
`Is it fastened?' asked Jarvey,
quickly.
`Yes, it seems so!'
`Then kick it in! you're a strong
man! kick it in! It is old and rickety!
Break it down! The law will allow it,
because you are an officer in discharge
of your duty. Pity but you'd discharged
it better and I should'nt been
out in this snow-storm at this time o'night
running the risk of the umbago
and rheumaties!'
David's children and his wife starving
and calling upon him for bread rose to
his mind.
`It is either they so dear to me or
these!' he cried! If I let these escape
mine will suffer! God forgive me!'
With this ejaculation he drove his iron
heel against the door. It burst from its
hinges, opening the reverse of its natural
mode, for the fastening upon the latch
was stronger than the rusty hinges and
screws. He found himself in a dark
passage. The floor creaked and bent
alarmingly to his weight, for David was
a large formed man as well as a large
hearted man.
He opened his lantern and saw that
the place that he was in was a square
entry with a door-way before him, the
door gone, probably for fire-wood,
and a vacant room beyond. On his
right was a closed door, which he knew
from its situation must open directly into
the room where he had seen the wretched
and interesting family rejoicing over
the fragments of the miser's shutter.
The miser stood behind him shivering
with the cold, yet in his own chilliness
he felt not for others who suffered from
cold. He was too selfish to feel the
woes of his fellow-beings. Nothing was
evil unless it were evil to himself? Instead
of pitying, those in the room saw
that he felt on his own form how painful
cold was, even when unaccompanied by
hunger, he cursed them for heing the
cause of his sufferings; when the true
cause was his own avarice and inhuman
revenge that brought him out of his
bed at night. Bad men are always inclined
to make many distinctions. It is
a pleasure to correct that made by Mr.
Jarvey.
He stood shivering behind David, and
grasping in one hand a stout cudgel. He
stood behind David because he was a
timid man, and liked to be second when
danger might be before him; and he
grasped the cudgel because he was a
coward; for he did not know, his craven
soul whispered, but that the woman
might show fight—might seize some
murderous weapon to defend herself,
and perhaps kill or do him damage. He
knew that men had been killed by women;
and a woman that was poor
enough to steal a shutter was bad
enough to murder him when he come
after it.
So between cowardice and avarice
Feather-Few trembled and kept close
behind the tall stalwart watchman. His
tremors were lest he should be harmed,
yet his avarice kept him close to David,
that if the woman attempted to escape
he might be in the way to knock her
down with his cudgel.
David knocked upon the door, and
pausing two or three seconds, raised the
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[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
latch and entered. His quick eye showed
him at a glance, that the tall stout female
with the handkerchief about her temples
had disappeared.
The young girl was standing by the
bed-side clasping her arms around the
boy as if to encourage him, while at the
same time her cheek was pale, and her
fine dark eyes expanded with alarm.
Yet she stood firm, and gazing upon
the open door and at the figures of the
watchman and his companions.
The woman who had taken the shutter
was standing by the fire with the
cake in her hand as if just about to place
it upon the table. David saw that her
cheek was flushed, and that she looked
very much frightened, yet tried to assume
a look of composure. Indeed, he
thought she had caught up the cake to
appear, to whoever entered, to be quietly
engaged about domestic duties. There
was more than sudden surprise at being
intruded upon at such an hour in such a
manner, he thought visible in the features
of both; a certain manner like
that of suspicion; precisely, it occurred
to him like the aspect guilty persons
would wear at the appearance of officers
of justice. But that it was guilt he
could not believe; for he was confident
that the woman in taking the shutter
from the snow, took it without the least
idea that she was committing a theft.
If, then, it was guilty apprehension that
alarmed them, he felt that it must be
for something else, besides fear of being
called to account for the shutter.
Jarvey saw with his quick, jealous
eyes this expression of guilty alarm, at
least, so he interpreted it, and calling
out in a shrill, savage voice, in which
was mingled a tone of triumph, said,
`So, so! you may well look guilty!
Caught in the very act of burning up
my shutter! You must go to jail for it.'
And Feather-Few brandished his cudgel
as he spoke, and running up to the
hearth, tore from the flames a piece of
the shutter that had just began to ignite.
`Seize 'em, watchman!'
`It is only for the shutter then, thank
God!' exclaimed the woman, looking
very much relieved.
David heard the exclamation, and saw
the instant change in her manner with
surprise.
`There is something they have done
worse than taking the shutter then,' he
thought to himself. `But that is not my
affair.'
He looked around again searchingly
for the broad-shouldered woman, but
could neither see her, nor see where she
could have disappeared. He thought it
strange she should have hidden herself;
but as his business lay with the one who
remained, he turned his attention to her,
where she still stood before the hearth
with the half-baked cake in her hands,
her eyes fixed upon his face with mingled
alarm and curiosity.
`I am very sorry, ma'm, said David,
but I fear I shall have to take you off
to the watch-house. I don't like to
trouble poor folks, for poverty is burden
enough, but you were seen to take—'
`Steal, Dalton, steal!' interrupted the
little iron-monger, looking at the poor
woman as if he would annihiiate her
with his eyes.
`Well steal then, though I don't look
upon it in that light, Mr. Jarvey. You
were seen ma'm to steal the shutter as
it was blowed off from the window, and
I have tracked you here, and found the
shutter burning on your hearth.'
`Yes, woman, and you must go to
jail for it!' cried the little man. `It is
my shutter! my property! The wind
blew it down and you catches it up and
runs of with it. Downright larceny!
Take her watchman!'
`Indeed sir,' answered the woman
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
trembling and looking very much frightened
at the mention of the jail, `indeed
sir,' and she turned her large tearful
eyes upon the iron-ribbed visage of the
dimunitive looking iron-monger, `indeed
sir, I did not steal it. I saw it lying upon
the snow. I was out searching for fire-wood,
hoping that the blast would unloose
some shingles, or cast something
up that I might have wherewith to make
a fire to cook food, for we have been
nearly perishing.'
`A pretty excuse! I tell you it's no
excuse at all! Every thief might plead
that he wanted what he stole! a pretty
pass the world would come to! What is
your poverty to me? I don't know you.
You are no relation to me that I should
have to supply you with fire-wood; and
if you was I wouldn't. Relations are
blood-suckers! I havn't but one in the
world, and I'll make more out o' him
than he ever will out o' me! I hate
poor people! Come, no whining, you
must go! Lay hands on her, Dalton.'
`I'll arrest her, Mr. Jarvey, but I'll
not lay hands on any woman save in
kindness, answered David. `Come ma'm
put on your things, for you must go with
me to the watch-house.'
Oh! sir, have compassion!' cried the
poor woman clasping her hands. `You
look like a kind man; you look as if
you pitied our poverty; you speak mildly.
Oh! do not drag me away from my
child! See my dear boy there! he has
been lying for weeks ill with the typhus
fever. He is just beginning to get well,
and he would have been well long ago
if I could have given him proper nourishment.
'
`Oh, do not tear me from my children.
I did not steal—oh, I did not intend to
steal your shutter, sir,' she cried turning
from David to the miser, and clasping
her hands before him. `Do not send me
to jail, I cannot go. I will work and pay
for your shutter; I knew not that it was
good for anything but to burn; I found
it in the street, and in the snow. Have
pity on me and mine!'
`You can't move me, woman,' said
Jarvey with a cold smile. `I have heard
women talk, and don't mind tears and
stage-action. You stole the shutter, this
watchman here saw you; if it had been
no more than a shingle blown from my
roof, you had no right to it; it was mine.
So, stop your cries, and come along with
us.'
`Mother, dear mother, you shall not
be torn from us,' cried the boy springing
from the bed and flying to her side, where
he stood with his thin hand clenched and
his bright sick eyes flashing with proud
defiance.
`Sir,' exclaimed the young girl approaching
David, and laying her hand
upon the sleeve of his rough coat, and
gazing up into his face with earnest looks,
`oh do not take away my mother; she is
innocent of any intention of wronging
any one. Sir, we are very poor, and
suffering for every necessary of life.—
My mother weut out in the storm hoping
Providence would direct her to some fuel
that we might not perish for want of fire
and of food. She found this shutter in
this street; she seized it and brought it
home with scarce strength to lift it;
yet joy gave her the strength she had
not else. Had you seen her face lighted
with smiles as she entered with it, sir,
and witnessed our joy at the thought that
we should have fire, and could took the
little food we had to eat. She did not
mean to take what was of value to another.
Do not drive her to prison, sir!
She is our mother, and poor as we all
are, we live only in being together. If
you take her you will only increase our
wretchedness, already more than we can
well bear! You look kindly, sir, I know
that you are not hard-hearted; tears
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
tremble in your eyes, even now. Oh sir,
be pitiful and have compassion on a
wretched family, for though very poor,
sir, we are honest.'
`Gammon!' ejaculated Jarvey in a
tone of contempt.
`Silence, Mr. Jarvey,' cried David with
stern indignation. `You have no right
to insult misfortune. I believe on my
soul you have got no more heart than a
fish.'
`I want to know are you goin' to take
this woman, or not, David Dalton? If
you aint then I'll go and see if I can't get
an officer, and if I cross that are threshhold
to go after one, you are no longer
one o' the city watchmen if I can get you
broke.'
`You see, ma'am how it is,' said David
with evident emotion. `Mr. Jarvey says
if I don't take you off, he'll get me turned
out o' my place. I saw you take the
shutter, and didn't trouble you, for I
knew that you wanted it, or you wouldn't
have been abroad in such a night so
poorly clad. But the owner heard the
shutter blow off, and saw you take it and
go away with it. He came down, as
you see him in cap and coat, with his
lantern, and said I must pursue you or
he would inform against me, and get me
turned out. I would gladly have refused
ma'am, but I am a poor man, and have a
family and I don't know what else I could
do, as in these hard times, my trade,
which is that of a house-wright is overrun
and I can't get work, for nobody's
building. All I live by is my watchman's
wages. So I had to come, and I would
rather now pay three dollars than make
you go with me; but what can I do? I
offered to pay him for the shutter, but he
won't have nothing less than the mean
revenge of putting you into jail. It goes
against my heart to do this, but either
you or I must be the victim.'
`Then I will go,' answered the woman
firmly. `You have shown yourself to be
a good and honest man and I see that
you feel for me, and are only doing your
duty.'
`Hear that, Mr. Jarvey. Do you see
what a noble creature you would drag to
jail for taking a piece of wood to keep
her family from perishing. Come, Jarvey,
be a man for once, and see how it
feels to do a good action. Let the woman
alone, and let us go.'
`I tell you I will not yield an inch,'
answered the iron-monger. `If you
won't take her I will,' and he extended
his hand to place it upon the woman's
shoulder, when the boy, who all the while
stood before her in an attitude to protect
her, struck him a blow in the face so that
he staggered back. He uttered a yell of
fury, not pain, for the blow was not
heavy though given with will, and made
a stroke with his cudgel at the head of
the woman. It was caught by the open
palm of David.
`Stop, Feather-Few; you have only
got what you deserve, and I only wish
it had been a little more. Dare to harm
either of them and I will take you in my
arms and toss you through the window
as I would a cat.'
CHAPTER IV. THE ARREST.
The miser muttered some words
which David neither understood nor
cared to understand; for while he yielded
to his wish in arresting the woman
he entertained towards him, as his blunt
language showed, feelings of the most
thorough contempt.
`Now, ma'am,' said David, `as you
see how matters are with me, if you
will just suffer me to escort you to the
watch-house, I'll promise you shall come
to no harm. In the morning I'll see the
Justice and tell him all about the matter
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[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
and get you off. Don't fear but all will
come out right in the end.'
`My mother shall not go to gaol,' said
the boy, very positively and clinging
closer to her.
`Oh, sir,' cried Annie to the iron-monger,
her beautiful faced bathed in
tears, `oh, do not proceed to this extremity.
'
`David Dalton, I am tired of this
farce. Are you going to take the
woman?'
`You must come, ma'am. I see no
other way,' answered David, with emotion.
`I'll see that you are treated as
respectfully as if you were my own wife.'
`Do not say a word, Henry, my boy.
I must go. I am innocent of theft, and
I shall not be detained,' said the woman,
trying to appear composed at that dreadful
moment when the horrors of a goal
stared her in the face. `I shall be
back to breakfast.'
`Breakfast?' responded the young
girl, sadly. `We shall have no breakfast
to welcome you, mother! But your
presence will be more joyful than food
to us!' And she cast her arms about
her and kissed her. `Sir,' she said to
David, `you see my mother is not strong.
Take me in her stead. I will bear all
the punishment!'
`No, Anny, you must stay to take
care of Henry. You are his sole nurse.
He will miss you more than he will me.
Besides the watch-house is no place for
virtuous young girl. I have made up
my mind to go with the good watchman.
Do no fear on my account. I shall be
protected. In the morning I shall be suffered
to come back to you. Good bye,
dear children. Now, sir, I am ready,'
she said, with wonderful firmness.
`Well; I think you have delayed long
enough,' squeaked the iron-monger impatiently,
moving towards the door and
drawing the ear-laps of his cap over his
ears to prepare for the cold to which he
was to expose himself.
`Ready?' repeated David, looking at
the thin dress and at the shawl-handkerchief
which she put hastily about her
neck, and then at a wretched hood she
held in her hand. `You will perish
without more clothing.'
`It is all I have, sir. Doctors' medicines
and food have taken every thing,
piece by piece, for money, to pay for
them.'
`You are very yoor. I will lend you
my over-coat,' he said, taking it off and
throwing it around her. `You will
perish without it.'
`Good watchman,' said the boy, taking
him by the hand, `will you bring my
dear mother back in the morning.'
`I will, my boy, if I can.'
`I know you can.'
`Where shall I find her, sir, if she
does not come home?' asked the young
girl, grasping his other hand.
`God bless my heart. It will break
out-right with this; said David, almost
sobbing. `Take heart, good children,
your mother shall return in the morning,
or I will come and tell you. I swear to
you, Feather-Few, that I would not lay
finger upon her to take her to the watchhouse,
if I didn't feel sure the Justice
wouldn't detain her in the morning when
he hears the case; and he shall hear it,
to your confusion.'
`We shall see to whose confusion,'
answered Jarvey. `Judges don't wink
at larcenies. They hav'nt soft hearts
like your's you'll, find. I'll swear the
woman stole my shutter and you must
say you saw her do it, and that we found
the shutter half burned up on her
premises. I'll put a stop to stealing
from me. She shall be an example.
I'll make the poor people fear me as
they would a hyena. She shall be made
an example of. Not three days ago a
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
boy stole three ten penny nails from my
floor, and I had him sent to the house
of correction for six months. The judge,
like a wise man, said he ought to go; for
though the nails wern't of much vally
they might have been; and the boy that
would steal three nails would steal three
cents or three iron hoops. Come, tramp,
woman!'
`Don't be alarmed, good woman, about
your children here. Here is a half dollar
which I will give the boy. It will
help along a little till better turns up.
Now come, ma'am. Don't hold on your
mother, my little fellow. Be a man and
let her go with me.'
`I wish I were a man,' answered the
little fellow, `I would not let her go!'
David opened the door, out of which
Feather-Few darted, for he thought the
boy's eye flashed dangerously, and he
did not know what he might not do in
his resentment. David followed, taking
the woman by the hand. She strove to
suppress her own griefs and to comfort
her children.
`One word with my daughter,' said
she as the outer-door was reached: and
stepping back she whispered a few words
into the ears of the weeping girl.
`Tell him, Annie, not to expose himself
on my account, that they will let me
come back again!'
`Yes, mother!' I wid not let him
run any risk! Oh, it seems to me as if
Heaven had filled our cup now to the
brim!'
`It can be still worse, remember, Annie,
if he's taken!' she said impressively.
`Yes, indeed it can! Oh, may God
have pity on us!'
`He will in his good time! Good
night, dear, and keep them both up in
heart!'
`I will try to me, though I am ready
to sink myself!'
David spoke, and the poor woman,
embracing once more her daughter and
boy, turned and followed the watchman.
The storm still filled the atmosphere,
and the wind was piercing cold. It
chilled the body of the poor woman as
she stepped forth upon the gallery. The
snow was drifted knee deep upon it.
`You are a little woman, ma'am, let
me convey you down the steps to the
alley,' said David, suiting the action to
the word; and gently he bore her down
the shaking stairs as if she had been an
infant, and almost as easily.
The iron-monger went down first, and
with his lantern opened lighted the way
before them through the narrow alley.
`Let me down, now, I can walk,' said
the poor woman. `I thank you for your
kindness, sir!'
`Not at all, ma'am! I will do any
thing I can for you to show you kindness.
I hope you see how it is! I must
do my duty!'
`I see it, sir!'
`I am glad you are so sensible a woman
as to understand my situation, as I
see you do! If that miserable little
man before us had a heart that could be
seen in a needle's eye, if one looked
sharp for it, I shouldn't have to perform
such an unpleasant business as this!'
`Do you think, sir, the judge will keep
me?' she asked as she walked on by
his side down Flag Alley, the little iron-monger
turning round every fifth step to
see if they were coming.
`No, ma'am, he wont, I'm sure! He
shan't if I can say a word to be heard.
Bless me! there you are down! You are too weakly, ma'am, to foot it through
this deep snow,' he added as he raised
her again upon her feet! I have half a
mind to go back with you and let old
Feather's do his worst!
`No, let me go on now? I wouldn't
have you lose your place, sir!'
`What a good-hearted woman you are!
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You deserve a better fate. But, ma'am,
to fall into old Jarvey's clutches is as bad
as falling into old Cloven Hoofed's. I
never heard any body say a good word
of him yet; and you have had a specimen
of him to-night!'
`Come on, watchman! Don't lag behind!
It's a plaguey cold night! Push
on with the prisoner!'
`I shall take my own time, Mr. Jarvey!
I can't walk faster than the poor
woman, and I don't mean to drag her to
please no man! She'll be at the watch
house in good time, for I'm resolved you
shan't have the satisfaction of getting me
put out o' my place. You can't say a
word now, for I've got her, if I didn't
follow her when she took the infernal
shutter!'
They now crossed Dock Square, and
came opposite the old house where Jarvey
lived—from one of the windows of
which the shutter had been blown into
the street. Here the iron-monger came
to a stand.
`Go on with her! I shan't foller, for
I'm near froze to death, as it is,' he
said. `If you see fit to let her escape,
Mr. Tender-heart, you'll be the sufferer.
I shall be up to the Police bright and
early to enter my complaint, and if she
isn't there to answer, then I guess there'll
be a complaint entered against the watchman
of this beat, David Dalton by name!
So good night!'
With these words, squeaked out in a
shrill, malicious alto tone, the little
wretch fumbled at the door of his house
with his key, which with some difficulty,
on account of the numbness of his fingers,
he at length got into the lock. He
then darted in and disappeared from
Dalton's sight.
`Well, ma'am, there is one comfort,'
said David, as he moved on in the direction
of the watch-house, `and that is
that God above will judge that man for
this night's deeds. I'll yet punish him
for it some day before he dies; for I am
as great a sufferer, ma'am, in compelling
you to go to the watch-house, almost as
great a sufferer as yourself, ma'am!—
But I must do it or lose my place, ma'am,
and I hope you'll forgive me, you and
yours!'
`Indeed, sir, I have nothing against
you,' answered the poor woman, `for I
see this evil man has you in his power
quite as much as he has me!'
`That is the truth, ma'm. When I
think of my wife and children—I have
five of them, ma'm, and good children
they are too—I feel that I ought not to
run the risk of losing my place, which is
the only way I have had the last eight
months to support them, ever since those
great bank-failures and hard times came
upon us all. My heart bled when I
looked on your two and thought of
mine; but I could'nt help doing what I
have. I should'nt wonder if you cursed
me; and you don't know how it
relieves me to see you feel so kindly and
seem so to understand the matter. But
I only take you, ma'm, just to keep my
place, and in the morning I shall be the
first to see the judge and tell him your
case exactly, and I think if he has a
man's heart in his breast he will let you
go at once!'
`Indeed I hope so! My poor, poor
family at home! If I am sent to jail
or—'
`They can't send you to jail, ma'am!
It'll only be to the House o' correction
perhaps for sixty days!'
`Sixty days! What will become of
me and mine?'
`The judge won't do it, ma'm! I only
mean to say what is the most that he can
do, if they make out you stole the shutter
which they can't do!'
`The House of Correction is, I am
told worse than the jail or as bad!'
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`It amounts to the same thing. I'd
as lief be put in one as the other! There,
now we're round this corner the wind
don't blow so hard as in Ann street and
the snow hasn't drifted, so you can walk
along better! Are you tired, if you be
I will car'y you, ma'm!'
`No, sir, I can get on very well!'
`Hold firm to my arm. That is it!
What became of that other woman at this
fire, ma'm?' asked David who had several
times before set out to ask this
question but it escaped his mind.
`Sir! what woman?' she asked with
quick, nervous apprehension, and releasing
his arm with the suddenness of surprise.
`The large stout woman! I looked
through the window before going in and
saw her. She was breaking up the shutter.
But when I entered the room she
was gone!'
`Did you see her face! Did you—'
`Why, ma'm, how your teeth chatter!
You must be chilled to death! The
watch-house is but a few steps further
on. Shall I carry you the rest o' the
way!'
`No, sir! I can walk! Did you say
that it was a woman you saw?' She
asked with emphasis upon the word.
`Yes, with a red handkerchief tied
about her head! She was tall and larger
but I could'nt see her face well!'
`Yes, there was such a person;' she
replied as if suddenly relieved by his answer.
`She left as soon as you were
heard at the out-side door!'
`Oh, a neighbor, perhaps!' answered
David; `yet his curiosity not by any
means satisfied; for in looking about
the room he had seen no place where
the individual would have disappeared.
The bed was a low truckle and would
hardly have taken a cat under it. There
was no door but that by which he entered;
and so the mystery of her disap
pearance perplexed him and excited his
curiosity. He now saw that his captive
was greatly embarrassed by his inquiring,
and not wishing to annoy her
he let her pass, though puzzled to guess
how she had escaped from the room,
and why she should have escaped and
not the others if they had been guilty of
any acts which they anticipated would
bring officers upon them.
`You are sure that it it was a woman?'
demanded the female in such an earnest
and peculiar manner that the suspicion
that she might not have been a woman
flashed irresistably upon David's mind.
But woman or man where had the individual
vanished? He did not, however,
reveal to her his suspicion. He simply
answered:
`Yes; it was not the boy for he was
in the bed! But have we one at the watch
house?'
`Stop, sir! Stay, good watchman one
moment she cried earnestly.
`Well, ma'm! what do you wish to
say?' he asked kindly.
`I know you are kind and honest and
generous and wish evil to no one, Of
your goodness of heart I have had proof,
though I am at this moment your prisoner!
Now will you promise me that you
will never allude to this woman! Will
you give me your promise good watch
man, that you will not speak of having
seen a woman there?'
`Certainly I will, ma'm! If it will
gratify you!'
`It will indeed, sir! Oh you know
not what depends upon secrecy! That
evil man! Did he see her too?'
`Yes; but he thought of nothing but
his shutter! He will not think of her
again. But why shall I promise?'
`I cannot tell you. Yet I should not
fear to trust you. I may have to trust
you yet!'
`If you do ma'm, be sure I will be
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your friend,' answered David, as he
opened the door of the watch house.
CHAPTER V. THE INMATES OF THE WATCH HOUSE.
The place to which David conducted
the woman was a low wooden edifice,
one story in height, and situated at the
corner of Hanover street and a narrow
lane. It had a door and window on the
street, both defended by heavy shutters
with bars and bolts.
Upon opening the door he entered a
room about fourteen feet square in the
centre of which was a stove. Around it
sat two or three watchmen upon a semicircular
bench, and in an arm-chair, directly
in front of the door sat a stout
fleshy man in red whiskers, who was the
lieutenant of the watch for that ward.—
The watchmen had evidently just come
in, as they were covered with snow and
were warming their hands and feet at
the stove. The lieutenant was wrapped
in an ordinary surtout, his heavy apparel
for out doors hanging upon a peg within
reach. About the room on the walls
were suspended to rows of pegs, heavy
watch-coats, glazed hemlets, watchmen's
short staves armed with hook and spear,
gloves, caps, mufflers and other apparel.
Gver each peg was a number indicating
the peculiar ownership of what hung
upon it.
The room was comfortably warm, and
the party about the stove, which at one
corner was heated red hot, seemed to
be in the best of humors, as they were
laughing very loud when David entered.
`Ah here is number 8 come with a
cove,' said one of the watchmen, looking
at David and his charge.
The lieutenant of the watch, who was
called by courtesy Captain, by his men,
hereupon half turned his eye, and said
composedly,
`Ah, Davy, what have you there?'
`A poor woman, captain, who found
a shutter in the street which had blown
off from one of old Jarvey's windows.—
The old miser said she must be pursued
and I had to go after her, or lose my
place, though I would gladly let her gone
off clear. You see she is a poor body,
and she needed fire-wood this cold night,'
added David, removing his coat from her
person. `Stand back, Jeffrey, and let
her warm herself. She hasn't seen a
fire like this, in an age, I'll warrant
me!'
The poor woman drew near the stove
with an air of humility and shivering with
cold. Jeffrey's the scotchman moved
back and gave her a place on the bench.
She hesitated to take it!'
`Sit there, good woman,' said David
kindly. `Get well warm before you go
into the lodging room!'
`So, mistress, you stole a shutter, eh?'
observed the red-whiskered lieutenant,
eyeing her from beneath his shaggy
brows. His manner was authoritative
and disagreeable, like that of bitterness in
the possession of temporary power.
`Sir, I did not steal it, answered the
woman fervently. `I found it in the
street. My family were perisning with
cold and for food and—'
`Hush old woman! The same old
tale.'
`No it is not the same old tale, Captain,'
said David stoutly. The shutter was an
old rickeny affair not worth fourpence.
I saw it blown off into the street and did
not think it worth while to pick it up,
when this poor woman come shivering
along in the blast and catching it up with
a glad cry fled with it as if she had found
the treasures of the Indies! So I let her
go with it, for it was no theft and not
worth the trouble of calling to her;
-- 091 --
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
besides unless the poor body had wanted it
very much she would not have taken it.
So I felt glad that she had found it.
`Too tender-hearted by half, Davy,'
ejaculated the lieutenant emitting a cloud
of smoke from his mouth for he had just
lighted a pipe. `Your humanity, as you
call it, Dalton, 'll lose you your place yet.
You remember the sassenger-case.'
`Yes, I do; and I would do the same
again, captain.'
`Well, you might but I would'nt,' said
one of the watchmen with No. 2 on his
helmet. `I would let a man go to jail if
he was old as methusalah afore I'd pay
for what he stole!'
`But the old man that took the sausages
from the door was starving to death;
for he began to eat them down raw as I
would eat a carrot,' answered David.
`Besides I only had to pay the shop-man
forty cents to let him go.'
`I would'nt have done it,' answered
No. 3. `A man caught pilfering ought
to be taken up.'
`I would rather have paid twice as
much rather than lugged that whiteheaded
old man to the watch-house!'
`Yet you like to have lost your place
for not doing it when the head captain of
the watch knew it,' said the lieutenant.
`But I did'nt lose it, lieutenant after
the captain heard all the case.'
`But in this case old Jarvey would'nt
take pay, oh?'
`No. He made me follow the track
of the woman and went himself with me,
and I found the house, and the shutter
half-burned up on the hearth. But it
was such a wretched place and the family
seemed to suffer so that I felt that I
should rather take two dollars and give
to the poor woman to buy wood and
food rather than take her off. But
Feather Few insisted she should be arrested
and brought here or he would
complain of me, he said, for winking
at theft. So I had to bring her. But I
mean to see the Judge early in the
morning, and I know I shall get her
clear in spite of Jarvey who means to be
there to prosecute her!
`There ant no use talking to the
Judge, Davy,' answered the Captain,
knocking the ashes from his pipe; and
looking into it and seeing that it had
gone out he said, pompously, `No 3,
give me a coal if you please.'
No 3 took up a coal in a small pair of
iron tongs and dropped it respectfully into
the bowl of the Captain's pipe.
`There ant no use blarneying his
honor,' he resumed when he found that
his pipe drew again; `he is case hardened
to such things. And it's natral he
should be seein' as many as from ten to
twenty brought up every morning. He,
by and by, begins to think they are all
alike and lump 'em all together.'
`I don't believe the Judge is such a
man,' answered David, warmly. `He
has the reputation of being a humane
and just Judge!'
`Well, you try him to-morrow. He 'll
ask you did the woman take the shutter
and carry it off. You must say yes.
Jarvey will swear that he saw it half
burned up on her fire, and the Judge, as
a matter of course, will send her up for
sixty days, or three months, and call the
next case. You may tell him she was
poor and freezing. He will answer you
that of course she was, he supposed that,
or she would'nt have taken the shutter.
So, good woman,' said the Captain, with
a sort of patronizing majesterial air,
`you may look upon yourself as hooked
for sixty days and your board paid out of
the public purse!'
The poor woman who had listened
with intense interest in this conversation,
buried her face in her hands and sobbed,
audibly, `My poor children!'
`Do not despair, ma'am,' said David
kindly, going up to her and laying his
hand upon her arm. `Things won't be
vuite so bad, if they be I'll see that your
children wont suffer, if I have to eat only
half a meal myself.'
`Oh, sir, God in Heaven will reward
you!' cried the poor woman in thrilling
tones of gratitude.
`If the prisoner is got warm and comfortable,
Davy, you can show her in to
the lodging room; for I guess you've
been off your're beat about long enough.
Come, woman, get up and foller him into
that door!'
This command issued from the lieutenant
as he sat at his case with his feet
raised upon an iron fender that surrounded
the stove. She rose tremblingly and
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looked at David with an air of helplessness.
`She don't seem to feel at home,' observed
No. 3, coarsely. `I guess she
ha'nt slept in a watch-house afore. But
ma'am, you'll find comfortable quarters
and no mistake. We provide well for
the town's children while they is under
our particular charge!'
`Come, ma'am, I will show you the
room,' said David.
`Oh, do not leave me!' she cried,
pressing his arm and looking round
alarmed upon the harsh unfeeling brows
of the three men.
`You will be safe, here! No one will
harm you, ma'am,' answered David,
opening one of the two doors that were
on the back side of the room.
It was a greasy, dirty looking door,
and one of the panels had been replaced
by a rough piece of board nailed upon
the mounting. Over this door was the
words, `Female Apartment,' and over
the one next to it a similar sign, having
upon it the words, `Male Apartment.'
Both doors opened into long narrow
rooms, separated by a plank partition;
and walls of the room were seats and
`bunks,' or low berths for the persons
detained through the night. Into the
male apartment the two watchmen, at the
stove, had just turned in two men whom
they had caught prying about a shop
window, under circumstances of suspicion,
and upon whom they found burglars
tools. These men were now very
noisy and were banging at the door, and
were calling upon the watchmen to bring
them something to drink. The sound
of their voices was so near that the poor
woman thought she was about to be
placed with them.
`I hope I am not to be put with those
men, good Mr. Dalton!' she cried, drawing
back as he opened the door.
`No, ma'm. Do you see these words?'
he added, pointing to the sign over the
door. `You will find only women in
here!'
`Thank you, sir!' she said, entering
the dimly-lighted room with a sort of
cheerful alacrity, and appeared as if
much relieved from her fears.
`Good night, ma'am. I'll be here
right and early, and go up to the court
with you,' said David. `Old Jarvey
shant have his wish, be assured of it.
You will at once be dismissed as soon as
the judge sees you, and hears what I've
to say about you.'
`God will bless you, sir, for your goodness,
' answered the woman, gratefully,
as David gently closed the door upon
her.
What a sinking of the heart: what a
dying away of hope she felt as the pleasant
and sympathising face of this friend
disappeared. She realised for the first
time all her destitution and the horrors
of her situation. She was a poor helpless
female in the hands of rude men,
and she was to be arraigned in the
morning for a crime! Crime? She
felt she had committed none. She felt
that in the eye of Heaven and of humane
beings she was innocent. In her own
heart and intent she was innocent. But
still she trembled. She knew that if the
judge listened to the Iron-monger's tale,
that she would be sentenced. She knew
well that the law in its stern impartiality
took no account of the circumstances
that led the guilty to do crime. She
knew that the law took cognizance only
of the fact—the asked fact. If, therefore,
Jarvey could make out to the satisfaction
of the judge that she stole the shutter,
all David's influence would not benefit;
nay, she felt that, on the contrary, every
word he should speak in her favor might
injure himself, as it would be regarded
by the court as an effort to exculpate his
conduct in not pursuing and arresting
her in the outset.
The room was lighted by a japanned
lamp, hanging against an upright beam
in the centre of the long-room. The
funnel from the stove in the front apartment
traversed the room along the ceiling
and warmed the air of it. By the
faint muddy light of the lamp, she saw
that two of the bunks were occupied by
women of the most wretched appearance.
One had her head bound up, and the
other was intensibly drunk. Upon a
bench sat a short stout female and a
young girl of fourteen. The elder individual
had a bloated face, and looked
like a virago. The girl who was about
fourteen, had a handsome face, but it
bore a reckless, dissipated expression as
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[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
if she had been early initiated into vice.
The stout woman, seeing the new
comer stop and regard her, and hesitate
whether to advance to the bench, cried
out in a coarse way,
`Go, don't be afraid cozzy; we aint
goin' to whip yer. Forge along here on
your thin shanks, and take a seat. What,
have the Charlies got you in jar?'
`Charlies, marm?' repeated the woman,
taking a seat rather as a measure
of securing herself from insult than as
desirable in such suspicious company.
`Charlies are Hookies, woman. You
are a green one! Never was here afore,
I'll swear.'
`No, I never was!' sighed the poor
female.
`Well, you're here now, and there's
always a first time, though you've waited
till you're pretty old. Why I was in a
watch 'us afore I was sixteen!'
`I ain't fifteen yet, Bess,' cried the
girl with a tone of decided self-approbation
and triumph at having beat her mature
friend by a year or more.
`What have they got you up for, they?'
demanded rather than inquired Bess,
looking at her with a hard eye and a superior
kind of air, as if she took in at
once what a poor, sickly, meek, virtuous
being was in her presence.
`I am accused of stealing,' answered
the poor woman, faintly. `But I did
not steal!'
`So every thief says. It's a mean
game, stealin', unless one can lay her
flippers on coin—then it's an honor!—
Now, this young girl was taken up for
taking a watch and a purse to-night from
a youngster that called to see her.'
`And what a row he made when he
found it out, interrupted the young girl,
laughing. `He hollared to the watch
till he had a dozen round, but I have hid
the jumbles where he won't be the wiser,
though they've got me!'
`They'll send you up for six months,
Juley,' said Bess, in a careless but encouraging
tone,' and then when you
have served your time honestly out, you
can have your watch and money to go
upon.'
`That I mean to do,' answered the
youthful thieveress, in a very decided
tone, confirming her resolution with a
very round oath.
`I suppose you'd like to know what I
am in for,' said the stout woman to the
stranger, who had listened with a shrinking
heart, shocked beyond measure, at
being in the presence and contact with
such depravity.
`Indeed, I am not anxious to know.'
`Well, I'll tell you, so if you have a
husband, you'll know whose example to
foller. I'm tuck up jist for givin' my
old 'un a confounded whippin'. I keeps
a tavern, ye see! and he must come and
borry money from the till without leave,
sir! and I gives him a backhander and
he hits me a tipper under the peepers!
I breaks his head with a porter bottle,
and he hollers murder, and then there's
the devil to pay! Charlies run in. I
fight hard. No use! They fight harder,
three to one, and here I is!'
CHAPTER VI. A SCENE IN THE LOCK-UP.
When David returneed to the store,
after letting the woman he had charge of
into the bunk-room, the captain said, with
the tone and air of a connosieur,
`Davy, that is a pretty little woman
of yours, though something pale; but
good points, good points! She seems
not to like here much. But sixty days
in the House of Commons over to South
Boston will wear off the squeamishness.'
She is a very nice woman captain,
and a very virtuous, lady-like person I
am sure, poor and bad off as she is now,'
said David, feelingly. `I hope you will
see that she is treated kindly, for she is
not used to this.'
`Don't you fear, Davy. She isn't so
young and handsome that there's any
danger I shall look at her a second time.
Yet, as I'm a gentleman, she has been
handsome. She has points! Her eye
is good and her mouth fine!'
`You are altogether too free and easy
in your talk, captain, for an officer of
the watch,' said David, in a tone of grave
reproof.
`I think, Dalton, we will have you appointed
Chaplain to our Ward, said the
captain, with a laugh.
David made no reply, but hanging his
club upon his arm by the hook, he went
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[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
out and was closing the door after him,
when the other watchmen joined him,
and together they moved along towards
their respective beats.
As soon as they had left, the lieutenant
of the watch rose to stop a loud
clamor among the men detained in the
male apartment. There was much loud
swearing and shouting, and the confusion
of a very respectable uproar. Taking a
pistol and cocking it, he opened the door
and called out in a loud, thundering tone,
for silence. There was an instantaneous
lull of the tempest. Some of the
men, for there were six or seven in all,
slunk to their berths, while the rest stood
quiet and gazed upon him.
`What an infernal noise,' he cried, in
a stern voice. `If I hear any thing more
like it, I will blow somebody's brains
out! So mind your eyes there among
you. Some of you devils, I see, have
been hoping to get out; but I'll just publicly
express my private opinion in a
personal way to you, my dears, that
there's no kind o' use trying on't! It's
no use! You can't come it! Stronger
men than any o' you mean looking scoundrels
here, and more of 'em too, have
tried the same game with a rush, but it
didn't hang well—not a bit! They had
to bite their thumbs, just as I adwise you
to do, and go to bed. If I hear any
more of sich a catawampus, I'll make
some o' ye wish Dick Crabtree (that's
my name, gentlemen) hadn't been born
afore you was well dead. So now you've
got my private 'pinion of the case, you
know which side your bread is buttered.'
With this brief and characteristic
speech, Mr. Crabtree slammed the door
too, dropped across it a very heavy iron
bar, uncocked his pistol and hung it
upon a peg by the side of it.
`Captin' dear!' cried a sort of boatswain's
voice with the asthma, through
a crevice in the door leading to the women's
lodge.
`There's the women now. It's as
much as a man's conscience is worth to
keep such a place. What do you wan't
in there?'
`It's me. It's Bess!'
`I don't thank you fur the information—
you've been here till you're no stranger.
What do you want, Bess?' he de
manded, though not in such a gruff tone
as he had at first pitched his voice.—
And as he put the question, he unlocked
the door.
`I want a little whiskey, if you please,
Captin'.'
`Not a drop this night for love nor
money. It's agen' the law, Bess!'
`I don't want it for myself, Captin'.
The woman is faintin' and I'm 'fraid
she'll die.'
`What woman?'
`The slender, thin cove as come in
last? Don't you see her layin' with her
head on the beach? If you don't believe
me, see with your own eyes.'
`It's all a flam, got up between ye to
get rum.'
`I swear to jubilee it out, Crabtree!
She's goin' off like a gaspin' fish.'
`I'll see—I'll see! I knows sham
from natur!' and the stout Captain
forced his round, puncheon-like body
through the much too small door and approached
the fallow form of the poor
woman whom David had brought in.—
She was lying upon the floor, with her
head upon the bench from which she
had sunk down. She seemed to have
fainted, for her eyes were half closed
and glassy, and her face as white as marble.
Near her stood the young girl who,
as Bess was talking with the Captain had
been very diligently, under color of aiding
her, foraging in the pockets of the
poor woman's dress for whatever she
might be so fortunate as to find; but to
her surprise and disappointment they
contained absolutely nothing to reward
her charitable activity.
`You have done this, Bess,' said the
lieutenant of the watch, as he saw that
it was `natur' and no sham. `You've
been fighting and knocked her down.'
`As I have a soul to be saved—'
`Doubted! You needn't swear it.—
How was it, Juley, girl!'
`I don't know I'm sure. It was all at
once. We were talking, Ben and I,
about William Wilson and his killing
young Henry Temple, when all at once,
when we wern't sayin' any thing to her,
she kind o' gave a sigh, and down she
went there just as you see her.'
`That's the livin' truth, Crabtree, I'll
take my oath on it,' asserted Bess, with
-- 095 --
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round emphasis, and a rounder oath that
cannot be here recorded.
`I dare say she's half starved and
grieved to death,' said the lieutenant with
more sympathy than was promised from
his previous exhibitions of character.—
`I'll get some rum and we'll try to bring
her to!' he added, going to the officer,
and returning with a portly jug. He
stooped down, and poured some into her
mouth, while Bess and Juley bathed her
head and hands, pouring some of the
liquid into their palms, and then carrying
the well-filled socket of the hand
thrice to their own thristy lips, while they
gave her head and hands the benefit of
the rest.
At length the poor woman revived,
and looked around with a fearful and
uncomprehending gaze. The burly figure
of the captain of the watch, the vice-impressed
countenances of the woman Bess
and the young girl, brought at once the
whole force of her condition to her mind.
She groaned deeply, and murmured—
`Oh, my poor children! What have
I done so wicked as to bring me to this?'
`Cheer up, marm, cheer up,' said
Crabtree, with a disposition to assuage
the miserable woman's grief. `I have
seen worse cases than yours—you'll only
be hauled up afore his honor in the
mornin,' and perhaps at the outside, be
sent up for sixty days.'
`She's a mere green 'un, said Bess,
with a toss of her head. `I never saw
a woman have so little grit. I'm blessed
if I ever felt so bad for being here, as
I don't, if I'd let the officer see it, and
expose myself so afore him. Come, be
a man, or what is better, be a woman,
and snap your fingers at them as I do.'
Hereupon the amazon suited the action
to the word, and caused Dick Crabtree
to step back, to save a smart rap
with the nimble ends of her fingers upon
the cheek.
`I'll have a pair of bracelets on your
wrists, Bess, if you are not civil,' answered
the captain, with an oath. I
don't mean to have my dignity treated
with despise by any o' your tramps. So
keep quiet. You know me, Bess, and
I know you.'
Here he caused his staff to perform
sundry evolutions above her head, at
which she neither moved nor winked,
while the girl Juley amused herself in
making mock courtesies to the officer.
`I'd like to have you both sent up for
a year, for you are both of a piece!' he
cried, with angry vexation. `They are
enough to corrupt you, marm, and I'd
advise you to have nothing to say to 'em.
You seem to be a pretty decent body,
and I dare say wont be in here again in
a hurry.'
`Indeed, sir, I was not aware that I
was doing any thing to bring me into such
a place!' said Mrs. Wilson, shuddering.
`I feel I have done nothing, and I know
the judge will acquit me.'
`Well, that's his look out. Mine is to
take care of such folks as is brought here
till the judge sends for them. So good
night, all. Bess, if I hear from you
again, it shall be the last time. If they
trouble you, marm, just sing out to me.
That's all.'
With this quiet menace, the Captain
of the watch took up his lantern and left
the lock-up, firmly securing the door as
he shut it. Bess contented herself with
shaking her huge masculine fisl after him—
while Juley turned a pivouette, as if
glad to get rid of his presence.
`Now, we have the coast clear,' said
Bess, walking with long strides up and
down the apartment, with her arms akimbo.
`If I had seven women like myself,
I'd drive every watchman out of this
watch-house, and keep the ground too,
till I was killed or taken. Juley, it takes
a woman for fightin'. But not such a
mealy-faced thing as that ere one,' she
added, pointing with her right elbow towards
Mrs. Wilson. `It is sitch soft
one's as that as destroys our sex, and
makes the men think they can rule over
us. Juley, you are young now, and
many years maybe is afore ye. Let me
give ye one piece o' advice, as will be o'
use to you as long as you live.'
`Well, Bess, what is it?' asked the
young girl, stopping after one or two
more whirls upon her toe a la Elssler.
`Always hit first!'
`I'll remember it, Bess,' answered
her pupil, executing a pas that would
have excited the envy of Taglioni.
`Now, Juley, let's sit down, and talk
with this ere woman, and see what she
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is,' and she instantly approached the poor
woman.
`I beg you will not disturb me, good
people,' she said, shrinking. `I am not
well.'
`Send for the Doctor, Bess,' cried
Juley, with unfeeling raillery.
`Pra'ps, sheld like the parson best,
seein' as she looks sert o' religious. Well,
let her alone; for she'll up and yell,
and then old Crabtree 'll be in here, and
put the mittens on us. So let's be quiet.
Put some wood into the stove, Juley,
for its gettin' as cold here as a rich man's
garret.'
The order was obeyed and the two
females drew near to the stove, and began
to court its genial warmth. Mrs.
Wilson would have gladly drawn nigher
to it, for she was suffering, but she preferred
to be chilly as she was, to being
in the society of such depraved persons
of her own sex; for their brutality and
oaths shocked her modest, pure mind; for
though poor she was virtuous and moral,
and a stranger to the vices that, alas!
too often are the attendants upon poverty.
In a little while she sank into a sort of
dreamy state, half sleep, half wakefulness,
but a state of mental consciousness
of suffering. The two females at the
stove soon began to talk together, as if
not heeding her or supposing her to be
asleep, yet she heard every word they
said, and when she heard her husband's
name uttered, she was all ear and the
keenest attention.
They spoke low and cautiously, but as
she was within five feet of them behind,
she heard distinctly.
`Then you think he will be hanged if
he is taken, Bess!'
`Yes, Juley; and nothin' on the roun'
earth can save his neck.'
`But he'll say he did it in defendin'
himself,' said the young girl.
`That won't help him. Don't you
know in law-courts, the prisoner ant allowed
to say nothin' for or agen himself.
He ant bleived if he says he's guilty;
and much more if he says he's innocent.
Courts is curus things, gal, as you'll find
when you've had as much 'sperience of
om as this ere hoss!'
`I'd like to find Wilson and get the
three hundred that has been offered for
him.'
Here the poor woman started, but instantly
recovered her appearance of
sleep, and listened with the most painful
intensity, to every word that followed.
`Who wouldn't? But there's the difficulty.
No body knows where he is;
though Dick Nevers said yesterday he
believed he was hid somewheres in the
city. Well, that Henry Temple was a
proper nice young man, though he had
a good deal too much devil in him when
he had the wine in. You know'd him,
though, Juley.'
`Didn't I? He gave me and two
others a champaigne supper ony the night
afore but one that he was killed.'
`Was Ann Wilson among you?' asked
the woman, taking out a short smoke
burnt pipe from her deep bosom and filling
it with tobacco from a tortoise shell
box drawn from the same ample receptacle.
`No, not that night; I never saw her
but once.'
`When was that?'
`Out to the races at Cambridge? Harry
had her in his phæton along side of
him. She was veiled close all the time,
except once the wind took her veil right
up and blowed it over the top of her
bonnet. My! how quick she got hold
of it and pulled it down and looked as
blushy as a red-herrin'.'
`Was she as handsome as they say
she is?' asked Bess, taking up a bright
coal with the bowl of her pipe, and
placing the short bit of stem in her
mouth.
`Yes, she was handsome and no mistake,
Bess. But Temple seemed plaguey
ashamed she was seen; for he meant no
body should know but she was a tip-top
lady he had with him.'
`He might have knowed, rich as he
was, no genteels would ride with him,
he'd got to be so dissipated. I wonder
where he hid her? It's the strangest
thing neither she nor her father has been
found since Harry's murder, and it's now
most six weeks.'
`I shouldn't wonder if she had been
made way with, Bess.'
`I shouldn't either. It's a pity if she
has; for with her face she'd ha' made
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[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
her fortin. I don't blame her father
much for killin' him. It was nat'ral for
a man who had his daughter seduced
away by a rich young fellow that way,
to want satisfaction.'
`I don't think so, Bess. She was ony
a poor sewing-girl, and he ought to have
felt himself honored that sich a respectable
young gentleman as Harry Temple
noticed her at all.'
`Well, Juley, I hopes they'll catch
him, coz; I'd like to hear how it all
came out on the trial. They do say as
how the father of Ann Wilson was pecooliarly
agawated to do what he did.
Some say as how Harry passed himself
off as a young journeyman printer, and
so won her affections. Coz, she'd have
been shy on him if he'd come in his
kids and gold chains, and driven his
buckish horse and baroosh up to her
father's door.'
`Yes, Harry was always cute. I
heard he did something o' the kind.'
`Well, if he did, he deserved what he
got. I can't stand one o' your men
under false colours. I like every thing
fair and above board. Every one in
his own skin, I say. If a man is a sinner
let him swear! If a man is pious
let him pray! But none of your cross
handed fire for me. I never disguises
myself; I'd scorn it. What I am all
the world knows, and the devil too! I
always act out my nat'ral character,
and would be ashamed to pass myself
off for a vartuous woman, when I knows
I aint one. If Henry Temple come it
over the father of Ann Wilson that way,
as people say he did, he got his desarts,
and the old man aint to blame! Still
I hopes he'll be cotched, coz, as I told
you afore I want to read the trial.'
`Well, Bess, I'm sleepy,' ejaculated
Miss Juley with a yawn.
`So am I! so let's bunk. There's
that pale-faced flummock as fast as a
turnkey after dinner.'
With these remarks the two ladies
rose, and each finding an empty bunk
got into it; and in a little while the
lock-up was perfectly quiet.
CHAPTER VII. THE POLICE COURT-ROOM.
Early on the ensuing morning, just
as the day began to dawn, the slumbers
of the inmates of the lock-up were rudely
broken by a loud voice at the grating of
the door, calling out—
`Turn up, turn out. Bear a hand
and get rigged in less than no time to
go to Court.'
This command was instantly followed
by a general movement in the apartment
occupied by the female prisoners.
As they had all turned in without removing
an article of clothing, their
toilet was soon arranged. Bess and her
young protege grumbled a little at being
called so early, and the former told the
officer that she would not stir her stumps
without a naggin of bitters.
`You'll get your bitters, old 'un after
you get to the p'lice-court,' said the
officer with a laugh. `No stopping
now for such things, Come, move on,
for the carriage is waiting.'
`Bless us! am I to be a lady and
ride in my coach. Hear that, Juley.'
We are ladies and they knows how to
treat us,' answered the young girl, as
she passed out.
`Come, woman,' said the officer,
looking at poor Mrs. Wilson, who after
a restless night had awaked to the painful
consciousness of her situation, and
was now weeping violently at the thought
of her family, and her own disgrace.—
`Come, you must not stay here. `You
will be like to get only sixty days on
that matter, if it was only a shutter you
stole.'
These words were spoken by the officer
in tones of kindness, as if he felt the
woman was far from being depraved
like the most of those who were placed
there, and really deserved sympathy.
Mrs. Wilson raised her head, and
wiping away her tears advanced tremblingly,
for she was really weak from
hunger and sorrow, and went out into
the office where all the other women
were gathered with several watchmen
about the stove, for the cold of the morning
was intense. The old hacks at the
door, drawn by wretched horses, received
the captives of the night, and
went off with them to the court of justice.
Mrs. Wilson sat in one corner,
covering her face with her hands, and
paying no regard to the opprobrious
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[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
epithets with which the others saw fit
to notice her.
At length they alighted at the court
house and were ushered into the presence
of the judge. It was past sunrise
and he was then in the act of taking
his seat.
The cases of the prisoners who had
accompanied Mrs. Wilson were soon
disposed of, and sentences given. Her
case was resumed last, as old Jarvey the
miser, had not yet come to appear
against her. At length he entered muffled
to the eyes in furs and woolen comforters
out of which his long peaked
nose protruded with remarkable conspicuousness.
The case was called and
the old man entered his complaint
charging her with stealing his shutter
from the street with which the wind had
blown it during the storm of the night
before.
`What have you to say, woman, to
this charge of theft?' demanded the justice,
sternly, eyeing the shrinking, trembling
form before him.
`Sir, I have nothing to say. If the
gentleman says that it was stealing, I
then have stolen; but sir,' she continued
with touching earnestness; `but,
sir, God above knows that I was innocent
of any intention to steal from him,
or from any other living person in the
world! I and my family at our poor
home were perishing for a fire both to
warm us and to cook what little food we
had left. I was the only one that could
bear the storm and I went out to gather
wood!'
`Where did you expect to find wood,
woman? It does not grow in the
streets!' said the Justice, sternly.
`No, sir! But I was in hopes the
wind would have torn off some old
shingles or bits of boards or broken a
branch from some of the trees by the
side-walks, so that I could bring home
a little something!'
`I dare say; and if you had not found
any of these things, doubtless you were
ready to tear off the shingles or boards
and break off the branches if you
thought you could do it safely. I have
had enough of your quality here before
now!'
`Indeed, sir, I am no thief. I would
not have taken a shingle new or old
from any man's house. I hoped to find
somewhat in the street. So I went
along scarcely able to bear up against
the wind and snow, and was near perishing
and had almost resolved in my
heart to go home again and die there
rather than in the streets, when I saw
before me half buried in the snow what
I thought was a piece of board. I flew
to get it, when I saw that it was an old
shutter much broken and fit only for
fire-wood!'
`Fit only for fire-wood, hey?' repeated
old Jarvey, making a step towards
her and shaking his cane in her
face. Impudent huzzy! Do you dare
to say that my window shutters are fit
only for fire-wood! You won't get off
this way. Your honor, I hope that you
see that she is a liar as well as a thief.'
`You live in a very old house, I believe,
Mr. Jarvey,' said a man who sat
near the prisoners and towards whose
benevolent face poor Mrs. Wilson's eyes
had been more than once turned with
an undefined feeling that he would not
see her wronged if he had power there.
`Yes, Mr 'Gustus, but that is nothing.
You'll please let the justice go on, and
not intermeddle here. This is a case
that don't come under your province, so
you will oblige me by keeping quiet.
The woman is a thief! She stole my
shutter! I followed her home! I saw
her break it up and throw it in her fire!
No matter if the shutter was not worth
more than a sixpence, that sixpence
worth I'll have justice for!'
`That will do, Mr. Jarvey,' said the
Justice. `I will pursue the examination
myself. So, then Madam, you acknowledge
that you stole the shutter?'
`I did not steal it sir! I took it, not
thinking it was good for any thing.'
`Except to burn,' said the Justic with
a slight sneer.
`That is all, sir!'
`And that is all wood is good for.'
If you had gone to my wood-pile and
stolen half a cord of wood, you might
have offered the same plea with equal
justice, that it was only fit to be burned!
The shutter then being acknowledged
by you to be fire-wood, has a value like
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[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
other fire-wood! you are therefore guilty
of theft!'
`Good? There you have her, Mr.
Justice, like a rat in a pair of tongs!'
exclaimed the little miser rubbing his
hands together partly from glee, and
partly from cold, for the court room
was something chilly.
`But sir,' plead the poor woman who
thought of her family and their wretchedness
and the danger too that would
befal one of them if she were sent to
prison,' but sir, the shutter was in the
street. I found it half buried in the
snow!'
`No excuse! Is what is found in the
street the property of the finder's, answer
me that?'
`N—n—no, sir,' said the poor woman
with hesitation, feeling her perfect
helplessness under the subtle power of
the law. `No, sir, if it is valuable like
money.'
`Or like wood!' responded the justice
with a look of ironical triumph upon
his face. `You see that you can't better
the matter, woman. If a dozen
sticks of wood had fallen from a cart,
would you have been at liberty to pick
them up and carry them home as your
own?'
`No, sir, but —'
`But to pick up a shutter and carry
it home and burn it, is a far greater offence.
It is true the shutter had been
blown from the building to which it appertained
and lay in the street half-buried
in the-snow. But this accident
did not destroy the owner's property in
the shutter. It was his still, and would
have been his where ever he could have
found and identified it. He saw you
pick up the shutter!'
`Yes, with my own eyes, and so did
this honest watchman,' cried Jarvey,
giving this appellation to David Dalton
out of gratitude at his having consented
to appear in the Court against her; but
the reader has seen with what reluctance
the kind hearted man had yielded
to circumstances he could not control.
David was present. He stood a little
back from the box in which Mrs. Wilson
stood to go through her examination
before committal. He leaned upon the
top of one of the seats, wrapped in his
watch-coat, his arms folded across his
breast, his tall, athletic form conspicuous,
and overtowering the diminutive
miser, who was a pace or two in advance
of him, leaning upon his staff.—
Directly in front of the miser was seated
the benevolent looking man, who was
closely and shrewdly watching the progress
of events. Jarvey carefully evaded
this person's calm, clear eye, and more
than once shifted his position to avoid
its penetrating glances. David also
watched the progress of the examination
with painful interest. He could not
help hating the man who had compelled
him to bear testimony to condemn the
poor woman whose poverty should have
opened every heart to compassionate
her.
The words of the miser drew all eyes
upon David. He could not help colouring
with shame at the idea that they
would think he had voluntarily given
his testimony or arrested the woman at
first, for so slight an offence, if offence
it could be called. Having done his
duty in arresting and appearing against
her, he now resolved to yield to the dictates
of his honest nature. So when the
Justice turned to him and said,
`So; you are the watchman that
caught her stealing the shutter!' he
answered firmly,
`I am the watchman, your honor,
that arrested the poor woman; but if I
had my own way, I would not have
done it. But I had to do it, or lose my
place, and I am not rich enough to lose
it; so I thought I would arrest her and
leave it to the humanity of this court to
have her honestly discharged from custody!
'
`Honestly discharged! What! Did
she not steal the shutter?' demanded
the judge with a look of surprise. `Mr.
Jarvey, did you not say this man saw her
do it?'
`Yes, I did, your honor,' answered
Mr. Jarvey, his face glowing with indignation
at the bold position which David
had now taken; for he saw that he
having performed his painful duty to the
letter was beyond his power. `He can't
deny it.'
`I do not deny, your honor, that I
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[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
saw the poor creature take the shutter
and bear it off.'
`And you did not follow her?'
`Not till I came down stairs and compelled
him to do so, yer honor,' yelled
Jarvey in his cracked, squeaking voice.
`I told him if he refused to pursue and
arrest her, I would have him complained
of and discharged!'
`And you would have only done your
duty, Mr. Jarvey,' said the justice. `It
is well for you, watchman, that you
obeyed him. You should have acted
promptly at first. Your duty is to protect
the property of citizens!'
`I know it, your honor,' answered
David firmly. `I have never been once
complained of in the years I have been
a watchman for neglect of duty. I have
arrested more rogues than any other
man in the corps, though I say it!'
`I am aware of your good character,
Dalton,' said the justice. `I am, therefore,
surprised that you should wait until
a citizen calls upon you, before you
perform your duty. Nay, until that
citizen threatens you.'
`Your honor, I did not consider that
my services were called for. It was a
bleak, fierce night as ever I walked my
beat in. The snow and wind were
driving through the streets with terrible
violence. As I was wrapped in my
warm coat and partly sheltered, I was
thinking of the sufferings of the poor at
such a time, when I saw a dim-looking
figure struggling along through the
tempest. As it came nearer, I saw
that it was a woman thinly clad. There
lay in the street, half hidden by the
snow, a fragrant of a window shutter
which the wind had a few minutes before
hurled from the shackly old building
on the corner where I was standing.'
`Shackly old building!' repeated the
miser in a rage, and shaking his stick at
David.
`Why did you not pick it up?' asked
the justice, paying no attention to the
miser's angry vehemence.
`Because, your honor, I did not regard
it as of any value. I should not
have thought of it again, but that I saw
the woman run to it, draw it from the
snow, and hurry off with it.'
`And what did you say?' asked the
justice.
`I said in my heart, Go, poor woman.
The wind has been God's angel
to thee and thy cheerless hearth!'
`Humph! And did you not think of
following her?' continued the justice
with a frown, for the noble sentiments
of humanity are not always welcome in
a halt of `Justice.'
`I did, your honor, think of following
her to place a little money in her hand
to buy food and fuel, for I thought that
one of her sex who was forced to go
abroad on such a night to seek winddrifts
must be poor indeed. But she
was gone before I could pursue her.'
`You see this, your honor,' cried
Jarvey. `You see that by his own confession
he is her partner in the crime!'
`It looks very like it, Dalton,' said
the justice, compressing his lips and
looking very severely. `It is well for
you you went after her, even at Mr.
Jarvey's threats; for you would not
only have lost your place, but I tell you
plainly I should have committed you.
You have just saved yourself. A narrow
escape.'
`I think he ought to he committed as
it is, your honor,' said Jarvey. `However,
if I get the woman sent up for six
months, (it ought to be State's prison for
three years) I will let it pass. The city
should employ watchmen that haven't
soft places in their hearts.'
`Mr. Jarvey,' said David, `I would
rather have that soft place in my heart
which led me to pity this poor woman,
and be begging by the highway, than
have that hard place in your heart and
own the mines of Mexico!'
`Silence,' said the justice, rapping
upon the desk before him. `David
Dalton, you testify that you arrested this
woman in the act of breaking up and
burning the shutter which you saw her
steal out of the street soon after it fell
from the house occupied by the plaintiff?
'
`I arrested her burning the old shutter
I saw her take out of the snow in
the street,' answered David, laying a
strong emphasis upon the word `take'
in contradiction to the term `steal.'
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CHAPTER VIII. THE SENTENCE AND THE RELEASE.
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
The answer of the stout-hearted
watchman did not by any means please
his honor. He frowned and bit his lips.
He had himself used the word `steal,'
not `take,' and that the witness should
thus substitute one word for another,
was not gratifying to him. It is true
that he had no right to have used the
word `steal,' thus declaring a theft to
have been committed, when his duty
was only to decide upon the truth given
in. But there are some justices who always
assume that the prisoner brought
before them is guilty, especially if they
be poor and friendless. Such was the
case in the present instance. It was
clear to all present who were disinterested,
that he would have been very
much disappointed to find the prisoner
guilty. He seemed to take delight
in condemning. To acquit any one
went sorely against his nature. Instead
of regarding himself as a protector of
the innocently accused, who might be
brought before him, he no sooner confronted
a prisoner than he assumed a
frown to inspire terror and brow-beat.
He did not now like the bold bearing
of the honest watchman. If he had
dared to have stretched his authority, he
would forthwith have ordered a committal
for him; but as David had faithfully,
though reluctanctly, performed his duty,
in arresting the woman, he could charge
nothing against him. The Justice, after
being a few moments silent, as if
considering what he should do, for in
his heart, he felt that the poor woman
was no thief, and that her case called
for commisseration rather than punishment,
looked up uneasily at the benevolent-looking
man and then fixing his
eyes on the prisoner said sternly,
`Prisoner, you have been accused of
stealing a shuter, and the accusation
has been fully proved. You have
plead poverty and the valueless character
of the article stolen. But neither
of these pleas are admissible in a court
of justice, as I trust this is. If poverty
were an excuse for theft then no persons
would be convicted; for want it is
that leads to the commission of almost
every theft. The man who steals a
loaf of bread, though he were perishing
with hunger, is equally guilty with the
man who robs the vaults of a bank.
Theft is theft. Ahem.—Nor is the plea
that the thing stolen is of no value. It
has a certain value to the thief, or why
should it be coveted. The shutter may
not have been worth to Mr. Jarvey a
sixpence.'
`Your honor, I would not take one
silver dollar for it. It will cost me two
dollars to have a new one made.'
`Very well. You see, prisoner, that
the value of your theft is two dollars:
a very grievous crime, you perceive.
But under the circumstances if you are
willing to pay him the value of the
shutter and the costs of your arrest, &c.,
which will amount to about a `five,' you
are at liberty to go to your home;
otherwise I shall commit you for three
months. An example must be set. Justice
mnst not be too lenient. The dignity
of the laws must be maintained.'
`Oh, sir, I have no money,' cried the
poor woman, clasping her thin hands
together, and looking towards him with
a tearful face. `I have not one penny
in the world. I am wretchedly poor.
I have a family at home who are at this
moment perishing for food and warmth.
Oh, sir, be merciful to me, as you hope
to have mercy at the bar of God!'
`Don't talk to me here, woman, of
the bar of God! We recognise here
only our own tribunal. You will gain
nothing by sacrificed speeches and tears.
We are used to that blarney here. Pay
the five dollars, or Mr. Officer take her
off to the House of Correction.'
`Mercy! mercy!' cried the poor woman,
shrinking from the officer's touch,
throwing herself upon her knees before
the inexorable justice. `Do not bar me
from my children. I meant not to steal.'
`Three months, woman. You have
your sentence. Officer, do your duty?'
`Stop, sir,' said David Dalton, stepping
up, and extending one arm between
her and the officer, while with the
other he raised her from her knees.
`There is no need to go to extremities
in this affair. The poor woman has
friends, though she can't find justice.
Keep up courage, ma'am. They shan't
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harm yon. It was through me you
came here, and I'll get you free, if five
dollars will do it. Your honor,' he added,
in a voice deep with generous emotion,
and laying, as he spoke, five dollars
upon the table, `there is the five
paid. The poor woman is free from
your clutches, God be thanked.'
`What, fellow!' cried the justice with
flushed cheeks, `do you contemn and
insult this court?'
`No, your honour!' answered David,
standing erect in the dignified attitude
of an honest man; `I mean to insult no
man. What I said came from my
heart and my lips would utter it. If
you choose to commit me, I am ready
as soon as I see this poor woman safe
home!'
`You have lost your berth as a watchman,
fellow, if I have influence enough
to eject you from it,' answered the enraged
justice, his face looking even redder
than its usual brandy hue.
`My good man,' said the benevolent
looking gentleman, rising and taking
David's large hand in his own and
smiling kindly, almost sweetly, upon
him, `you need not fear any ill consequences
from your generous and fear
less conduct this morning. If his honor
should succeed in getting you dismissed,
though I do not see what charge he
can bring against you, I will take care
that you find employment. I have been
watching your face during this examination.
I was pleased to see the deep
interest you take in the case of the poor
woman, and I only delayed to advance
the five dollars in her behalf, knowing
from your manner that you would certainly
do it, and I was willing that you
should have the satisfaction of doing it.'
`Sir, you are very kind. I would
not have been prevented for a good
deal from paying the money, poor as I
am; for by my means she is here before
this justice's court. If I had not have
been so afraid of losing my place she
would have escaped!'
`Mr. Justice,' now cried out the little
miser, who had been looking from one
to the other and listening to what was
said with his blood boiling over, `Mister
Justice, I protest against this mode of
settling the matter. I did not say I
would take two dollars for the shutter.
I only said it would cost that to have a
new one! Two dollars won't satisfy
me. It won't pay for my trouble last
night, my trouble here this morning,
and my wear and tear of mind and
body, besides a three penny candle that
burned all night in my entry because,
in my excitement, I forgot to blow it
out! Sir, I demand justice. I demand
that the thief be sent to jail for at least
six months!'
`Mr. Jarvey,' said the justice, `the
case being decided and the money paid,
there is no reversion. You must submit
as you best can. If you had made
out a bill of damages you should have
had full recompense, but as it is I can
do no more in the matter.'
`I will appeal to the criminal court!'
cried the little man, taking up his hat
and thrusting it down hard upon his
head and stamping noisily and angrily
strode out of the room.
`Oh, sir, can he prosecute me farther?
' cried poor Mrs. Wilson, who had
been overwhelming David with her
grateful thanks for what he had done
for her.
`No, madam,' answered the benevolent
man, kindly taking her hand. You
are now safe.'
`Are you sure he can do nothing?'
asked David, making a step as if he
were about to pursue the miser. `If I
thought he could I would follow him
and give him a lesson that would make
him repent any such intention as he
has upon his mind.'
`He can do nothing, my good man.
The case is dismissed and can be prosecuted
no farther.'
`Hear that ma'am!' said David,
with exultation.
`I do indeed, sir!' she answered,
with looks of grateful happiness that
caused even her pale wan checks to
wear, for the moment, an aspect of
beauty.
`Is there a coach at the door, David?'
asked the gentleman, who had taken
such an interest in the fate of the
prisoner.
`I will see, sir,' answered the generous
watchman, hastening from the
room, while the justice putting on his
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hat and cloak prepared to go home to
his breakfast, having got through with
the examinations of the night-captives.
He had sentenced Bess to pay a fine of
three dollars and to promise good behaviour,
and had sent the young girl,
Juley, to the House of Correction for
sixty days. If he had sent the poor
woman, Mrs. Wilson, up for the same
time he would have gone home to his
breakfast with a better appetite; but
there was something in the countenance
of the benevolent gentleman, who was
closely watching the examination, which
restrained him from following out the
dictates of his bosom with reference to
her. But for his presence he would
have sent her up for six months. But
his own judicial power feared before
the moral power of that good man's, to
carry itself fully out. Would that every
court of justice had a human-angel
watching closely the judges, and guarding
the helpless and the innocent from
the vigours of relentless justice and the
wanton exercise of power. The proceedings
in some of our courts would
disgrace the judiciary of a Turkish
court of justice. The common idea of
justice is to make it the synonyme of
punishment. Justice holds the shield
as well as the sword; and should protect
as well as chastise. Justice is no
longer blind. It knows the rich from
the poor when both stand before its tribunal!
Its brow is ever bent into a
frown instead of being expanded with
benevolence and sympathy. Instead
of presuming every one innocent till
proved guilty, it presumes them guilty
and fears, as it would seem, that they
may be proved innocent. It seems to
stand gaoler at the great prison-houses
of the land and to cry `more, more!
Give us more!' It delights to condemn
rather than to acquit. It looks upon
innocence as its foe! Such is `justice'
in many of the petty courts of our great
cities. Through them hundreds of incent
persons have been condemned
with the guilty. In one of the tribunals
of one of the cities of this land, there
stands, day and night, a man at the right
hand of the judge whose self-imposed
province it is to act as a mediator between
the prisoner and the judge!
Hundreds of the poor and the unfortunate,
and friendless have been saved by
his interpoition, and restored to society.
His watchful eye scans closely the proceedings.
His availing arm is stretched
forth to save and defend. His presence
is like that of angels there! Justice is
purified by it, and more cautiously administered.
Is not the very fact of this
benevolent interposition a proof that
justice needs to adorn itself with humanity
as with a garment of righteousness.
Does it not show to the world
that more benevolence is needed in the
administration of our tribunals. If
humanity, charity, and love ruled over
the decisions of the judges what need
is there for a `Daysman' between the
prisoners and the bench? Remember,
oh, ye Judges! that misfortune is the
legitimate mother of crime, and that
pity and charity should ever temper the
severity of justice!
David now came in saying that the
coach was ready. The gentleman then
took Mrs. Wilson, poor and wretchedly
clad as she was, by the hand and led
her out of the low, dark court room,
and assisting her into the coach, got in
after her, while David got up with the
driver to show him the way to her house,
and at the same time to have the pleasure
of seeing her once more restored
to her home.
The morning was bright and clear.
The sunshine sparkled upon the surface
of the snow and produced a brilliant effect,
reflected from roofs, windows, cornices
and trees. The street, early as it
was, was filled with many sleighers, and
musical with the jingling of bells. The
hack in which they rode was upon runners,
and glided swiftly and smoothly
along the snowy streets.
`I learn from the watchman, madam,'
said the benevolent gentleman, whom
we shall call Mr. Gustavus, addressing
her to stop her expressions of joy and
gratitude which to a true benevolent
heart are annoying, `I learn that you
are called Mrs. Wilson. From your
appearance and your conduct in the
court I am satisfied you are an honest
person, and that you intended no crime.'
`Indeed, sir, I did not. Do you, sir,
think it was a crime, then?'
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`No, dear madam, not in God's eye.
In the eye of human laws it is a crime
to take the property of another wherever
we may find it. There was no guilt
in taking the shutter from the street,
for I know you would not have torn it
from the window had you seen it hanging
by one hinge only, and ready to
fall.'
`No, indeed, sir, I would not,' she
answered earnestly.
`Well, we won't speak of it any
more. It is all over, and you are safe
from the perils to which it has exposed
you.'
`And through your goodness, sir, and
that of the good watchman. Sir, you
have both done an act that I cannot reward
you for, but God will reward you.'
`I am content for all that I have done
or may do for you to await that reward,
' answered Mr. Gustavus with a
smile. `You live, you say, in a small
court out of Flagg Alley?'
`Yes, sir.'
`We shall hardly be able to get near
your abode in the coach. We will stop
at the foot of the alley. Are you married?
'
The woman hesitated, looked embarrassed,
but not guiltily so, and then answered
hurriedly,
`Yes, sir.'
`Have you children?'
`Two—three, sir!'
`You have represented yourself as
very poor. Is your husband not able to
maintain you?' he asked, without appearing
to notice her confused answer.
`Yes—yes, sir!' she answered, in
the same embarrassed manner.
`Perhaps he is ill?'
`No, sir. That is—'
`Well, I will not pry too closely into
your domestic affairs. I am convinced
you are an honest woman. I
wish to go to your house to see how
you live and how I can improve your
situation; for it will never do for one so
feeble as you are to be forced abroad in
a stormy night after drift wood to keep
your family from perishing. But the
coach is now at the foot of the alley.
We will alight here.'
The party alighted at the part of the
alley, David opening the door, and assisting
the poor woman to get out.—
Never had poverty two stauncher friends
than had this helpless female in this her
hour of misfortune. Mr. Gustavus offered
her his arm, while David went forward
leading the way, and kindly and
carefully beating aside the snow with
his boots, that she might walk easier;
for the narrow passage through which
they were passing was very much
blocked up, and she was as fragile as a
willow rudely blasted by the storm.
`Indeed, sir,' said Mrs. Wilson to her
benefactor, `you need not take so much
trouble. You have done more for me
than I could hope for. I can never repay
your kindness. Besides, my house
is too wretched for a gentleman like
you to enter it.
`I nevor yet, dear Madam, saw poverty
so low that charity could not stoop
as low. You have greatly interested
me in yourself and your circumstances.
I wish to see how you live, that I may
know how to aid you. You must let me
do as I wish in this matter,' he added
smiling; `for I assure you I am very
stubborn in such cases as this!'
David now turned out of the alley into
a narrower passage up which the
house stood. As he went along, he saw
the marks made by the shutter, as she
dragged it through the snow the night
previous. He silently pointed it out to
Mr. Gustavus, who perfectly comprehended
him.
`Here is your house, ma'am,' said
David, `and I trust after this, now that
you have found so good a friend as Mr.
Gustavus here, you will enjoy more
happy days in it, than you seem to have
done!'
`God, I see, has raised me up friends,'
she answered warmly, with tears sparkling
in her eyes. `How shall I ever
repay you, sir.'
`Don't think of me. Five dollars is
nothing compared with your staying six
months in prison. I should not have
slept or eaten in peace had you gone
there; for I was a coward in letting old
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Jarvey's threats make me act against
my conscience. It would have been
better, ma'am, for me to have lost my
place and trusted to Providence, than
to have taken you up and had you sent
to prison for no crime at all. Good
morning, ma'am; I must go home and
look after my little ones, for they'll
not know what has become of me, for
I'm in usually by day light.'
`David, where is your house?' asked
Mr. Gustavus.
`In a little court that runs out of
Cambridge street, sir!' answered the
watchman.
`What court?'
`It is called Finney Place, sir!'
`I know it. I will not forget you.
Your good conduct to this poor woman
has made me esteem you. Here is the
five dollars again that you have paid
for her. You cannot afford to lose it!'
`I cannot afford to take it, sir! I
am poor, that I know, sir! But I am
richer without that money than I should
be with it! I paid it from my hear.!
Keep it, sir! Will you not let any one
have the pleasure of doing good but
yourself?'
`Then I will not urge you. I know
the gratification that fills the soul from
a generous action. I will not deprive
you of this high enjoyment. It is possible,
Mr. Dalton, that the Justice and
Mr. Jarvey, by their combined influence,
for I see that both are your enemies,
may succeed in getting you dismissed
from your station as a watchman.
If so, do not fear but that you will find
some other employment. This I will
see to myself. Good morning!'
`Good morning, sir!'
`Take the silver and pay the coachman
as you go out, and dismiss him!'
David now took his leave of them,
and Mr. Gustavus followed the poor
woman up the tottering steps that led to
the door of her dwelling. She looked
as if something was on her mind aside
from the present events. She appeared
perplexed and trembled and several
times looked at her benefactor before
she opened the door, with an expression
in which the deepest gratitude seemed
to be struggling with a reluctance to
admit him into the house. He saw
this, but being resolved to do her good,
he did not seem to regard it. He supposed
that she had some secret domestic
grief that she wished to keep from him;
perhaps, an intemperate husband, or,
as he strongly suspected was deserted
by her husband and wished to keep his
conduct from his knowledge.
`Sir, I would rather you would not
take the trouble to enter my cheerless
abode,' she said, as she laid her hand
upon the latch.
`Pardon me, but I wish to know all,
so that I can do you all the good you
need,' he said, kindly, but firmly. `If
you have any thing you wish to keep
secret do not divulge it; for I do not
desire to know what you may wish to
keep back. I only wish to learn sufficiently
to be of real service to you;
for from what I can understand you are
wholly without friends, and are suffering
for the very necessaries of life.'
`Sir, I will not say any more! I may
yet confide in you wholly; for I see
that I can have from you nothing to
fear.'
She then opened the door, which led
into a small entry, from which a second
door opened into the room occupied by
the family. She had no sooner touched
the latch of the outer door than the
inner door was opened by the lad we
have already seen. Upon seeing his
mother, his large, lustrous, half-sunken
eyes blazed with joy and he cried out,
`Mother! dear mother!' and sprang
into her arms.
`Mother!' repeated the daughter
Anny bounding to meet her. `Oh, has
mother returned?' But as she saw behind
her mother, the face of the stranger,
she checked her bound of joy and
stood gazing upon him with looks first
of fear and then of confidence. She
saw that he was not an officer—not an
enemy, but a friend. Benevolence,
peace, and kindness were engraven in
heavenly lines upon his countenance.—
She bounded forward without fear, and
clasped her mother about the neck and
wept in her bosom.
For a few moments the three remained
thus intertwined in one another's
embrace, their hearts throbbing with tumultuous
joy.
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`Oh, my dearest mother, how happy
we are,' said the boy, lifting his dark,
expressive eyes to her pale face which
was fondly bent over him with natural
love in every lineament. `Sister was
just going to ask the judge to forgive
you, and tell him all about it, how you
didn't mean to do naughty, when you
took that shutter that made us all so
warm!'
`Oh, mother, how is it that you are
restored to us again?' asked the young
girl, raising her pale, beautiful face all
bathed with tears and beaming with happiness.
`Through God's mercy in sending
me two friends in my extremity, my
child! Knee, both of you, and bless
this gentleman; and I would that the
generous and noble watchman were here
also.'
`And so do I, madam, that he might
have witnessed this joyful meeting as I
have done.'
`I have witnessed it, sir,' answered
the husky and tremulous voice of David
close at his back. `I would not have
missed it for another five dollars, sir!
I came back to ask you if I had not
better step in the market, and get a little
something for them to eat, and a few
bundles of firewood just to begin upon,
for from what I saw last night they have
not enough in their larder for a kitten's
luncheon, and as to firewood, the old
shutter must be pretty well used up by
this time.'
`You are right, David. Here is money.
Use it at your discretion. You will
know what to buy.'
`Yes, sir; poor men can buy best for
the poor,' answered David, taking the
five dollar note and hastening from the
house, his eyes filled with tears at the
scene which he had witnessed.
Anny, the lovely lame girl, would
have knelt with her wasted brother at
the feet of the stranger; but he raised
them up and taking a chair—a broken
one which he had to keep on its feet by
the aid of his own,—he placed the boy
upon his knee and kissing his pale brow,
spoke to him in words of kindness and
sympathy. Anny stood near clasping
her mother's hand, and regarded the
gentleman with looks of mingled curi
osity and surprise. Kindness and
sympathy were very strange things to
her.
`Now, dear madam,' said Mr. Gustavus
after glancing around the almost
naked room and seeing that the family
was in the lowest poverty, `I beg of
you to tell me exactly your situation.—
I am your friend, and will do all I can
to relieve you.'
`Oh, sir, you are so good,' exclaimed
the mother with emotion.
`Have you any fire wood at all?' he
asked, addressing Anny, upon whose
lovely countenance he gazed with the
deepest interest, wondering how it was
that so sweet a flower should ever have
unfolded itself in so uncongenial a
soil.
`We have only this fragment, sir,'
she answered, blushing deeply as she
pointed to a piece of the shutter; `we
did not burn it after they took mother
away, because we feared it would be
wrong.'
`And so you have remained in the
cold.'
`We went to bed and cuddled under
the old quilt, sir,' said the boy. `It
kept us pretty warm, all but my back.'
`Poor child. You look almost frozen
now. In a few minutes the good
watchman will be here with wood.—
Have you got anything to eat in your
house?'
`No, sir,' answered Anny.
`Madam,' said Mr. Gustavus, turning
to the poor woman. `I see you are in
need of every thing. I will do what I
can for you, but I should be glad to
have your confidence fully. You told
me that you had a husband. Where is
he?'
At this question Mrs. Wilson started
and looked distressed; while the face of
Anny and of the boy betrayed alarm
and agitation. Mr. Gustavus felt his
hand tremble in his own; and he could
not but see that he had touched a painful
chord. There was evidently some
mystery—some painful fact which related
to the unseen husband. He was
not disposed to be inquisitive merely
from idle ouriosity. He felt that this
poor family had some secret source of
sorrow even greater than its poverty, if
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it were possible. He felt a benevolent
desire to arrive at the knowledge of it
that he might alleviate it by his advice,
or by pecuniary aid.
`My dear good woman,' he said in a
voice of kind persuasion, `I can hardly
assist you as I would wish, unless I
know the sources of your destitution.
Be assured you can confide in me without
fear.'
`Mother, let us tell the good gentleman
all about it,' said the boy earnestly.
`I know he is a friend to you and us.'
`Yes, mother, said Anny, with a face
brightening with trustfulness, `we can
trust this benevolent man. I know he
will never betray us. His advice may
do us good.'
`But we should involve him in the
responsibility of our secret, Anny,' answered
Mrs. Wilson. `He would feel
it a duty to inform, whence we feel it
a duty equally sacred to conceal.'
`I will put an end to the difficulty at
once, dear wife,' said a voice behind
them.
It was the voice of a man; but Mr.
Gustavus, on looking round, to his surprise,
beheld a tall woman, or at least a
person in a gown, shawl and hood.
Mrs. Wilson uttered a cry of fear, and
ran to him, while Anny and the boy
both exclaimed `father,' with looks of
surprise and terror.
`Do not fear, children. Do not fear,
Mary,' said the disguised man; `only
keep the door fast while I am in here.
This gentleman I know well by sight,
and by reputation. I would trust him,
as I am about to do, with my life. It
is Mr Gustavus the friend of the unfortunate.
I overheard his voice, and knew
it, and peeping from my hiding place,
saw him. I heard all that was said, and
made up my mind that it was best to
make a confidant of one who, if he
could not aid us, would never betray
us. Mr. Gustavus, though you see
me appear dressed as a female, I am
the husband of this woman.'
`Who are you, sir, and what circumstances
have rendered it necessary
that you should thus conceal yourself
in such disguise?' asked Mr. Gustavus
looking at first at him, and then at the
displaced boards through which he had
entered the room.
`My name, Mr. Gustuvus, when you
hear it will perhaas make you start with
feelings of revulsion; but before you
condemn me, know my defence.'
`I will hear you and judge impartially,
' answered Mr. Gustavus with surprise,
and wondering what revelation
was about to be made. There was
something in the tones of the man's
voice and in his countenance that prepossessed
him in his favor.
`You have not forgotten the death of
young Temple?' said the man, still
wrapped in his hood and shawl, and
furtively watching the door lest any one
should enter.
`No, sir, I have not.'
`You have heard the name of William
Wilson as the person who killed
him?'
`Yes.'
`That is my name! I am the man,
Mr. Gustavus!' said the disguised father
and husband in a firm tone.
`You! Are you the murderer?'
cried Mr. Gustavus with surprise and almost
with horror. `I was prepared for
some painful revelation, but not for the
bold confession of a murder!'
`Mr. Gustavus, I have made this confession
not boldly, but from a desire to
let at least one important person know
the whole truth. I feel that you will
be my friend as you seem to be that of
my family; and indeed, the friend of
the friendless everywhere. You are
the only man living that I would have
appeared before, as I now do, and acknowledge
myself to be William Wilson—
the man hunted by the police, who
are inspired to almost superhuman exertions
by the large reward that is offered
for my arrest. Will you listen to
me while I relate the circumstances
which led to that deed?'
`I will; and the more willingly, as I
begin to believe from your appearance
and manner that you will be able to
show some mitigating circumstances
that will lessen the horror of the act.'
`I trust I shall do so sir,' answered
the man as he seated himself upon the
low truckle-bed, his wife taking a seat
by his side, and closely watching with
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alternate glances, the face of her husband
and that of her listener. Charles
still sat confidingly on the knee of Mr.
Gustavus; while Anny stood near the
window, her countenance expressing
the deep interest she felt in what was to
follow.
CHAPTER X. THE STORY OF WILLIAM WILSON.
As William Wilson was about to
begin making his revelation to Mr. Gustavus,
a heavy step was heard without
the door. Anny looked through the
dusky glass and exclaimed,
`A man, father! a stranger! Hide
quickly!'
Mr. Gustavus rose to hasten to the
door to see who it was, while the disguised
Wilson concealed himself. His
wife stood trembling and anxious till the
opening of the door showed in the entry
the tall form and honest countenance
of David Dalton. Instantly the expression
of alarm changed to one of
joy and gratitude. Still, she was glad
William had got out of the way; for
she did not like to have his secret known
to another, however good that other
might be.
David was laden down. In one hand
he held a large basket in which, upon
half a bushel of potatoes, were placed
three nice fish, a pieca of fresh veal,
and a large turkey with sundry little
brown paper parcels. Over his shoulder
was slung a bam and a large sack of
wood and charcoal. His face fairly
shone with benevolence and joy.
`I am here, you see, sir,' said he to
Mr. Gustavus. `I hope I have got what
is needed. The turkey will do cold
for two or three meals, and the ham is
a good stand-by in a poor man's house.
Here, ma'am, is a pound of coffee and
a half pound of tea, four pounds of
sugar, and a pound of butter, besides
four loaves of fresh bread. You have
got enough to last you in plenty for a
week. I have brought you back, sir,
two dollars and twenty three cents out
of the five you gave me! There,
me'am!' added David, setting down his
basket and then laying from his shoulder
the sack of wood and charcoal and the
ham. `There, ma'am, you have prosperity
under your roof again, thank
God and Mr. Gustavus. I see your fire
is out, and I'll just take the liberty to
kindle one up and put the pot on to
boil.'
`Oh, sir, you have been too kind
already,' said Mrs. Wilson hardly, able
to articulate her thanks she was so overcome
at the shower of blessings that
were falling upon her. `Anny will do
all—she is very handy and active.'
`But I would rather, ma'am. Your
daughter looks weakly.'
`Yet I am stronger than you think,'
answered Anny pleasantly, and hastening
to gather from the dry wood enough
to set the fire agoing.
`Well, I'll let you do it, Miss. I dare
say you will be happier doing it. I
must'nt forget my own family in looking
after yours, ma'am, so I'll go home.
I saw a neighbour in the market who'll
tell my wife not to be alarmed. I'll
call to-night as I go on my beat to see
how you all do. Food and fire will do
wonders in a day.'
`David Dalton shall be a confidant in
my confession and defence, also, for
there is not a truer man in Boston.
David, remain awhile and hear what I
have to say.'
At these words, spoken so suddenly,
David started and turned round. Upon
beholding a tall female figure just,
emerging from the opening in the
planks, he looked amazed, and more
especially as the voice was that of a
man.
`What can this be?' he exclaimed.
Mrs. Wilson looked terrified; but
Anny said, in an earnest tone and with
a smile,
`Dear mother, do you fear? He
will never betray him!'
`Him? Who is it?' cried David,
looking at William as he advanced towards
the fire-place, after first securing
the door.
`It is me, David Dalton! You
knew me in better days!' As he spoke
he threw back his hood entirely from
his head and revealed a manly but haggard
countenance. He seemed to have
suffered immensely from hunger and
anxiety. His visage was so ghastly
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that Mr. Gustavus, who had not before
seen it fully revealed, uttered an exclamation
of the deepest commisseration.
David did not recognise him. `Have I
then so altered, David?'
`I do not know you. You are a man
but in woman's gear. Yet I think I
have seen those eyes before.'
`I am William Wilson!'
`Wilson, the murderer?' repeated
David, with a step or two back; and
with looks strongly expressive of his
horror.
`Yes, and the William Wilson you
once knew.
`The carpenter?' asked David, still
standing aloof.
`Yes.'
`And are you the same William Wilson
that killed young Henry Temple?'
`I killed him!'
David stepped back a pace or two
farther, and regarded him a moment in
silence. Mrs. Wilson feared he would
betray him. It was a moment of intense
anxiety to all. At length David
said:
`I have often wondered if the William
Wilson who did that deed, was the
same person who served his time as apprentice
under the same master with
me—I am sorry to find that he is!
You bid fair to turn out better, So,
then, ma'm, this is your husband?'
`Yes, sir; but oh! for my sake—'
`I shall not add to your wretchedness
by informing upon him. It is sorrow
enough to have, in addition to your
poverty, a husband who is pursued by
justice for so great a crime. I don't
wonder you have been driven to poverty.
I wish you had been happier than I see
you are!'
`David Dalton,' said the husband, `I
may seem, in your eyes, to be a very
guilty man! It is an awful thing for a
man to slay his fellow-man; but he who
kills another is not always guilty of murder.
I wish you to hear my defence.
I was about to begin it to Mr. Gustavus
when you came in. He has kindly promised
to hear me impartially.'
`And so will I, William!' answered
David, less severely than he had hitherto
spoken. `Whatever may be said by
you, I shall turn it to no harm. I will
listen, also—for I should like to have
you acquit yourself so far as you can.
Ma'm, I wish you would tell me first
one thing?'
`Well, sir, will you please say what
it is you wish?'
`Was not the old woman I saw here
last night your mother?'
`Yes, sir.'
`That is all I wanted to know. I can
now account for her sudden disappearance
when I entered—I see through it
all now!'
`Mr. Wilson,' said Mr. Gustavus,
`proceed now with what you desire to
make known. We are friends to you
and yours, and be assured that whatever
can be done for you shall not be withheld.
'
`Thanks, sir—thanks for myself and
my poor wife and children!' answered
William. `You shall now learn all the
circumstances connected with the death
of the young man for which I am now
hunted by the laws. I need not inform
you, sir,' said William Wilson, addressing
himself chiefly to Mr. Gustavus,
though glancing often towards David
also,—`I need not inform either of you
that Henry Temple was a young man
who, at the age of twenty-one, came
into the possession of a fortune of
seventy thousand dollars. His parents
had died when he was yet young, and
he had grown up with little or no control,
and in the free indulgence of his
passions and pride. After he came into
the possession of his money, you are
aware that he commenced a course of
extravagant licentiousness;—this the
newspapers have proclaimed to the
world.'
`Yes, I am aware of all this,' answered
Mr. Gustavus. `Proceed.'
`One of the first steps which he took
was to take a splendid suite of apartments
in a fashionable quarter of the
city, and gather around him that class
of young men to be found in all large
cities, who are willing to merge their
own independence in slavish submission
to the whims and arrogant pretensions
of a young man with money. The career
he ran with these is also well known.
His extravagant dinners and suppers,
his expensive equipages, his gaming
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saloon—these are but lesser features of
his pastime. United to his love of display
and reckless expenditure of his
money, was the low passion of debauchery;
to gratify which he left no means
untried—regarded no expense, however
enormous. No sooner would his lustful
eye fall upon the fair face of an innocent,
unprotected girl, than he would
set to work with the subtlety and guile
of Satan when he plutted the seduction
of Eve, to compass her rein. I need
not say that I am repeating facts well
known to the world, sir.'
`The character of Henry Temple has
been made familiar to the public since
his sudden death; still this cannot excuse
the crime. It is no defence to say
that the man you have killed was a bad
man!'
`True, sir; but I shall show to you
that it was the wickedness of Henry
Temple that brought his death upon
him, though by my hand! After he
had accomplished by fiendish arts the
ruin of three young girls, who are now
living a life of infamy, his baleful eye
fell upon a lovely and innocent maid, as
she was passing homeward from the
shop where she worked as a milliner's
apprentice.
`Anny, dear,' said William Wilson,
addressing the young lame girl his
daughter; `perhaps you had better go
and try to borrow a tea-kettle of Mrs.
Traney in the house down the alley.'
`No, father! I know all you would
tell Mr. Gustavus and Mr. Dalton,' answered
the interesting girl with downcast
eyes. `I can bear all! I prefer
remaining that I may listen to your vindication.
I will cook the breakfast; so
do not heed me!'
`You are a good girl and a blessing
to any father. As I was saying, sir,
Temple's glance fell upon the modest
girl I have spoken of. She was extremely
beautiful, and as modest and
discreet as she was handsome. Her
modesty tempted him to endeavor to
effect her ruin. He followed her home
secretly and found out by the poverty
of her abode that she was a poor girl.
This was in his favor; but the humble
station to which he saw she belonged,
he had experience enough to know
would be a bar to his success if he
pressed his attentions upon her in his
true character and under his own name.
Her face showed she was too pure and
good to listen to one who could only
seek to ruin her; and convinced him
that it would be impossible to make her
acquaintance as Henry Temple. Besides,
too, he found cut that she had a
father who might not like to see a gay
young man of the town prowling about
his lowly sheep-fold.'
`That father, William Wilson, was?—
'
`Myself, Mr. Gustavus.'
`And that maiden, thy daughter?'
`Yes, sir! But not this one! for I
see your eyes are turned upon my poor
and innocent child there. No sirs, it
was her twin sister. Once as pure and
innocent as—as she. Forgive me, sir,
I can't but shed a few tears. It is a
painful subject sir, for me to speak of,
but you must know all.'
`I am deeply interested, Mr. Wilson,'
answered Mr. Gustavus pressing his
hand.
`And so am I, William,' said David
Dalton. `I think I am beginning to see
how it will come out.'
`When you have heard all, judge me,
gentlemen, answered William firmly.
I will bring my story to an end as briefly
as I can in justice to myself and my
conduct. Henry Temple having seen
my daughter and resolved to seek her
ruin proceeded in this manner. He
found a poor shoe-maker who kept a
small boot shop in Hanover street, and
at the same time worked on his bench
with two apprentices in the back shop
Money can accomplish anything. He
went o this man, whom he knew to be
simple and honest, and told him he was
a young man without any trade and
some money; and wished to marry a
young lady whose father objected to the
match because he had no trade wherewith
to support her in case of a reverse
of fortune. Now,' said Temple to him
`I want you to assist me in this affair.
I will purchase your stock-in trade, and
hire you as my head workman. I will
pay you double the price of everything.
All I want is a shop, and for my intended
father-in-law to see me at work in
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its for I shall work an hour or so, just
so I can say it is my trade.'
`How did you learn so much?' asked
Mr. Gustavus.
`From the shoemaker's own lips, sir.
But you shall hear all. The shoemaker
at once consented to the arrangement,
pledging himself to secrecy, and Henry
Temple at once installed himself into
the shop as a boot and shoe-maker and
seller. He assumed the name of Edward
Carter which he put over the door.
He dressed according to his trade in
plain clothes, appearing at the shop in
the forenoon for three or four days very
regularly. You will now see, sir, the
object of all this. The millinary establishment
in which my daughter industriously
worked, was only two doors
from the shop which Temple occupied,
and which he had chosen from its neighborhood
to my child. He always made
it a point to stand in the door when she
passed and repassed at her meals so as
to attract her attention. On the second
day he even went into the shop where
the worked to make some purchases.
On the third day she passed his door,
when he hastened after her with an elegant
cambric handkerchief, saying politely,
`Miss you have dropped this.'—
She looked up and saw that it was the
handsome young boot-dealer, whose attentive
glances and manner had not
passed unnoticed by her, and doubtless
awakened some interest in her bosom
towards one who appeared to be pleased
with her. But to this moment they had
never spoken. Would to God, it had
been the last. She answered him modestly
that he was mistaken, that the
handkerchief was not hers, and thanking
him for his politeness, she walked
on: but he followed her saying. `It
must be yours if your name is Ann
Wilson, as I believe it is.' `It is my
name, sir, but the handkerchief is not
mine,' she answered. `Here is your
name upon it, Miss,' he said, exhibiting
her name before her eyes upon one
corner of the laced handkerchief. She
was struck with surprise, but answered
as before, that it was not her's, but probably
belonged to some other person of
the same name. In vain he urged her
to take it—she firmly refused, and he
left her. As she returned from dinner
he was standing in his door—the handkerchief
was in his hand. He stepped
out and said to her politely, `Miss Wilson,
I can find no other owner of this
than yourself. Keep it, at least, till an
owner is heard from—mine it is not.
If you refuse it, when your name is
upon it, I shall cast it into the street.'
`Well,' answered my daughter with a
smile, `I will take it and keep it for the
owner, though it is not mine, as you
think.'—Fatal consent!' added Wilson,
with a sigh.
CHAPTER XI. THE BRIDEGROOM AND BRIDE.
Mr. Gustavus had listened thus far
to William Wilson's narrative with the
most absorbing interest; and he now
only interrupted him to inquire how he
had learned such minute particulars of
what passed between his daughter and
the young pseudo boot-dealer.
`From her own lips, sir,' answered
he. `After all was lost, she made a
full confession to me. The acceptance
by her of the laced handkerchief was
the first step to an acquaintance with
her which ultimately ledto her ruin.—
When a young lady suffers a young
man, a stranger, to speak with her once,
it is difficult to break off further aquaintance.
When she came home, she exhibited
before her mother and myself
the handkerchief, and told how it came
into her possession; at the same time
speaking in such terms of praise of the
politeness of the young boot-dealer, that
I saw she was pleased with him. That
he was other than he seemed, or that he
had prepared this handkerchief with her
name upon it on purpose to open an acquaintance
with her, I never suspected
until afterwards.
`The next evening, as she passed his
shop to come home, he came out and
joined her with some words about his
being still unable to hear of any other
person bearing her name; and telling
her that he was satisfied the handkerchief
was hers, but she had capriciously
refused to have it back from him after
he had found it. Thus they talked about
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it, he playfully accusing her, and she as
playfully defending herself. He escorted
her to the door, and then asked
permission to call and walk with her to
church the next evening, which was a
Sabbath evening. Ann said that he was
a stranger to her, and she would rather
wait till they were better acquainted.—
He then bade her good evening. When
she came into the house, she told us all
that had passed, and I saw from her
manner that she was more and more
pleased with the young man. I, therefore,
resolved to ascertain something
about him, and the next day went into
his boot-shop. I found the old man
there, who gave me such a good account
of him and of his business that I felt a
secret desire that he might yet address
Ann and marry her; for it struck me
that it would be a good match for her.
I, therefore, told Ann if he came home
with her again to let me know it at the
door, and I would step out and ask him
plainly what his intentions were. The
next evening he accompanied her home,
and she came in while we were at supper,
saying that he had done so; but had
left her at the entrance of the alley.
The next night he came with her to the
door, and she invited him in?'
`Did your daughter know your resolution
respecting the young man, that it
was your purpose to ask him what his
intentions were?' asked Mr. Gustavus.
`No, sir. She did not suspect my
object. She had not any idea that I
looked forward to a probable marriage.
She would never have asked him in or
permitted me to put such questions to
him. When he came in and she introduced
him, I was pleased with his
appearance, and so was my wife. He
made himself very agreeable to us all;
seemed to be very intelligent and modest,
and to show a very tender respect
to Anny, my other daughter here, who
you see is lame, poor child! He spent
the evening with us. He told us his
father was a farmer in Vermont, that
he had recently came to the city with
three thousand dollars to go into business,
and liked very much. His name
he told us was Edward Carter.
`That night my wife and I lay and
talked over the probable marriage of
this young man with our child; for we
saw that she was quite as much attached
to him as he seemed to be to her. We
congratulated ourselves upon his fine
prospects in the world; and even in anticipation
looked forward to seeing the
old farmer, his father, down at the wedding.
`The intimacy between my daughter
and this young man continued for a
week or ten days, each evening he accompanying
her home and passing an
hour or two with us. Sometimes she
would walk out with him to a confectionaries,
and once he went to church
with her. We found that her heart was
wholly wrapped up in him, and that he
seemed to think of nothing but her.—
Still he did not propose to her, and I began
to wonder at it, for he was evidently
in circumstances to marry at once, and
he seemed so much in love with our
child that it did not appear that he would
be willing long to delay the marriage.
Still, to all my questioning, she answered
that he had not yet formally proposed,
though indirectly hinted at marriage;
and once laughingly asked how
her father would like a boot-maker for
his son-in-law.
`One Sunday forenoon, two weeks
after her first acquaintance with him, I
and Mrs. Wilson were walking to
church, for we used to be in better circumstances,
then, and could be clad decently,
sir,—as we were walking to
church with Ann and her brother
Charles before us, I saw a handsome
phœton with two horses, dashing past,
driven by a young gentleman dressed in
the height of Fashion. My wife and I
at the same instant exclaimed, “What
a resemblance to Mrs. Carter!” We
saw from Ann's face that she had also
seen him, and was struck with the wonderful
likeness.'
`I should have believed that was him,
Ann,' said Mr. Wilson, were it possible.
But it couldn't be.'
`That was young Harry Temple,'
said a neighbor who was walking on
before us. `He drives in fine style for
a Sunday.'
`Well, I declare,' said my wife `I
never saw such a likeness. Ann, wan't
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you struck with it?' she asked, addressing
my daughter.
`Yes, mother,' continued Ann, who
had not yet recovered from her confusion
at the sudden surprise of seeing a
face so like her lover's. But that it
could be Harry Carter neither of us believed
for a moment. He was dressed
differently, drove an elegant equipage,
broke the Sabbath, (and Edward Carter
had represented himself as a member
of the church,) and we had been told,
moreover, that it was young Temple,
whose name for his extravagancies and
debaucheries was in everybody's month.'
`The same evening the young boot-dealer
arrived at the house to ask Ann
to walk out to an evening meeting. My
wife told him laughingly how we had
almost believed we had seen him driving
out in a splended phæton with
dashing horses, and rallied him upon
his likeness to the young roue Temple.
' `And how did this affect him?'
asked Mr. Gustavus.
`He changed countenance and colored,
and then answered,
“I do not feel it to be a compliment
at all!” seemed a little confused for
some minutes, but suspecting no wrong,
we referred it to his mortification at
being thought to look as much like a
young man whose character for vice
was so notorious. He went out with
Ann, and I sat up till their return, resolved
if he did not speak to Ann about
marrying her, that night, I would open
the subject to him. But he left her at
the door, and when my daughter entered
I saw from her happy looks that
something unusual had happened.—
Upon questioning her, she told me that
she had accepted if her parents gave
permission. This intelligence was
highly gratifying to us, sir, for we were
assured that the match was one every
way advantageous for our child. Anna's
happiness was reflected from our
own hearts. The next day I went to
the boot-store to talk with him. He
was not there, for it only suited his purposes
to be there when he could see
Ann passing, so that he could see her
and walk with her home. But I found
the old man there who spoke so highly
of his employer that I was more pleas
ed than ever with my daughter's good
fortune.'
`Do you think that the old man was
also deceived respecting him?' asked
Mr. Gustavus.
`Yes. He very naturally spoke
highly in praise of a young man who
had bought and paid cash for his stock
of goods, and seemed to be so well off
and agreeable in his manners. He did
not, till afternoon, make known to me
the fact that he had been requested to
keep secret, that he was merely learning
the business to please a man whose
daughter he was engaged to. This the
old man kept from me; but what he
told me otherwise respecting him, he
firmly believed himself.
`The same evening I was formally
waited on by the young man, and a proposal
was made to me for my daughter's
hand. As I had no objection to offer, I
gave my consent; and as he desired
that the wedding should take place the
next week, as soon as the “publishment”
was out, which would be two
weeks. I consented to this, provided
Ann was willing. I found her nothing
loth, and the next day their names were
handed by me to the clerk's office for
record according to law.'
`He gave his name, you say, as Edward
Carter?' asked Mr. Gustavus,
pointedly.
`Yes, sir. You will find it on the
records now so written,' answered William
Wilson with emphasis. `Every
preparation was now made for the marriage.
We saw the young man every
evening and were more and more
pleased with him; for he had great powers
of entertaining when he chose to
exert them; and he had now a prospect
before him—the ruin of my child—of
sufficient importance to lead him to
make himself agreeable. The day of
the marriage came. At his request the
marriage was to be privately performed
before only my family and a neighbor's,
whose daughter was about Ann's age,
was to be brides maid. A young man,
whom Temple introduced as a leatherdealer,
was his groomsman. He also
was to bring the clergyman, who, he
said, was the pastor of the church in
Vermont where he lived, and whom by
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great good fortune he had found in the
city.
`The marriage, if such can be called
the infernal mockery that was put upon
me and mine, took place. I and my
wife thought ourselves the happiest of
parents, as we embraced our daughter
as a bride. How shall I go on, Mr.
Gustavus?' said William Wilson with
strong emotion; while the sobs of his
wife were audibly heard. But I will
let you know all; for there is no shame
to us. The day after the marriage,
Temple proposed, as he said to take
his wife on a visit to Vermont. They
were to leave the same afternoon, and
after dinner a coach came for them.—
We bade them a tearful good-bye, hoping
to see them again in three weeks,
when he promised to return.
`Now, sir, comes the most painful
part of my narrative. Three days after
the marriage, and when we were expecting
that our child and her husband
had about reached his fathers, I thought
I would call in at his shop to see how
things went. I found the old man there
with a stranger, and to my amazement
I was told that Mr. Carter had sold out
the day after he married, and had no
further interest there. The sign was
taken down, and the name of the new
purchaser was hung up in its place.
`I was somewhat surprised that my
son-in-law had not told me of this; but
supposed he intended when he came
back to begin business anew in some
other part of the city. But I shortly
found out that he had not left the city
at all.'
`So I guessed!' observed David Dalton.
`I discovered it in this way. I was
at dinner, and my neighbour Mr. Felton
came in and said bluntly,
`Neighbour Wilson, you remember
once about saying how much your son-in-law,
that now is, looked like that dissipated
Temple?'
`Yes,' I answered.
`Well, I have discovered something
still more stronger. I met, not half an
hour ago, riding with this Temple, one
who looks as like your son-in-law, and
a young woman, who is the very image
of your daughter, only a little paler and
less lively. Now if this double resemblance
isn't remarkable I don't know
what is.'
`I assure you, Mr. Gustavus, that I
could not help thinking it remarkable;
and perhaps you will be surprised when
I say that I had not the most distant
suspicion of any thing wrong. I believed
him to be all that he seemed, and
that they were then two hundred miles
from Boston in Vermont. Still I could
not help thinking a good deal about what
had been told me, and closely questioned
the person who told me, who said
that had he not known my daughter was
out of town, and could never have been
known to such a person as Temple, he
should have said, that she looked more
sad than Ann was used to, that it was
she herself.'
`During the day I forgot the matter
entirely, for there being no suspicious
in my mind, it soon died out. But just
at dark my little boy, Charles here,
came running in out of breath, saying
that he had seen his sister Ann at a
window of a fine house, and that she
beckoned to him, and seemed to be
weeping; and a man, that looked just
like her husband, Edward Carter, but
wasn't he, pulled her angrily away,
and dropped the curtain. I was surprised
at this, and should have doubted
what he said, supposing he had mistaken
some other person for her, but instantly
what my neighbour had told me
at noon rushed to my mind. I felt at
once a strong desire to see for myself
who this person was. I spoke with my
wife about it, and the more we talked
the heavier our hearts grew; but from
what reason we could not tell. We felt
sad, and a sort of foreboding of evil oppressed
my spirits. Still, there was nothing
defined, nothing that took the
shape of suspicion that all was not right
with our daughter.
`Nevertheless,' said I to my wife, `I
will go to this house where Henry saw
this female, for I feel that I can't sleep
till I satisfy myself about her. I do not
believe it in Ann; still there is a feeling
about my heart that won't be removed
till I know all about this! Come,
Charles,' said I, taking my hat, come and
show me the house where you saw the
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young woman who looked so like your
sister. He said he could find it at once
and we went out together, my wife praying
that we might not bring back any
evil reports for it seemed to her that
some unknown evil was hanging over
us like a cloud.'
CHAPTER XII. THE DISCOVERY.
`The night was clear and frosty, and we
had to work sharp to keep ourselves warm,'
said William Wilson, resuming his narrative
of the circumstances which had led to
the death of Henry Temple. `My boy told
me that the house in which he had seen the
young woman so like his sister, was in H—
street, near the State House. At length we
reached the street, and came in front of the
dwelling. It was a large, three-story house,
and very gentel-looking. Its blinds were
all closed, but on crossing the street and going
near, I could see that lights shone
through the curtains of the front windows.
I asked Charles to tell me at which window
he had seen the young woman when she
beckoned to him, and whom he was firmly
persuaded was his sister, and he pointed to
one in the second story over the door. I
was resolved at loast to find out who lived
there, and there being a grocery on the corner
a few steps distant, I walked in and
purchased a penny worth of tobacco, and at
the same time asked who lived in the house
in question.
`That,' said the man, with a significant
smile, `is Temple's house—they call it his
seraglio!'
`What Temple?' I asked.
`The rich young Temple.'
`As soon as I heard this name I recollected
what my neighbor had said about the
young woman, so like Ann, who was riding
with Temple, and I now saw that my boy
had also seen her at his window, and struck
by the likeness, had taken her to be his sister.
I, therefore, left the shop, and resolved
to return home. But as I repassed the
house I could not help asking myself why
she should have beckoned to Charles, which
he continued to repeat most positively that
she did.
`I stopped before the house with an irresistable
desire to enter it. It seemed to me
that my peace of mind was in some way
hanging upon the occupants. Impulsively
I approached the door, ascended the steps
and rung. Before I could frame an inquiry,
the door opened, and so immediately upon
my ringing, that I knew some one had his
hand upon the knob to come out. There
were two young men in caps and cloaks,
who stared at me and passed out, calling
back and saying, “Good night, Temple.”
` “Good night!” said a voice in the hall,
that made my heart leap from my heart to
my brain. It was the voice of my daughter's
husband. The next moment Temple,
richly dressed, stood in the door which he
was about to close after his guests who had
walked rapidly away, when he saw me by
the light from the hall lamp. I had my little
boy by my hand. The light shone
clearly upon us. He recognized me at
once, and exclaimed in mingled anger and
alarm,
` “The infernal devil! He here! I am
caught now!”
`If he had not uttered this exclamation,
Mr. Gustavus, and thus betrayed his knowledge
of me, I might have been deceived by
him into the belief that he and Carter were
two different persons. If he had betrayed
no sign of knowing me, as doubtless he
would have done, had I not taken him so
completely by surprise, I should have easily
been deceived. But his exclamation, his
tone and manner assured me that I had in
some manner been that man's victim. Still,
how, in what way, I had no definite idea.
` “Is your name Temple?” I asked, hardly
knowing how to act or what to say; for I
had yet no suspicion of the truth that was
soon to overwhelm me.
` “It is, fellow—what do you wish?” he
demanded all at once, assuming his selfpossession.
` “Do you know a young man by the
name of Edward Carter?”
` “I know no such person,” he haughtily
said, closing the door, but which I pressed
open again; for Charles whispered and said
it “was Edward himself!” This I began to
believe, though I was greatly bewildered.
` “How came you to know me?” I asked,
greatly agitated.
` “I do not know you. Don't keep me
here in the cold. You have impudence
enough to come to a gentleman's door to
ask after your low cronies. Begone.”
` “Edward Carter had a scar directly over
his eye-brow`” continued William Wilson,
“and though small, it was a very peculiar
one. I had often noticed it. A sudden recollection
of this came upon me. I stepped
closely up to his face and looked at him fixedly.
I saw the scar there, and my be wildering
suspicions were confirmed.
` “Young man,” I cried, laying my hand
firmly upon his arm, “I know you and you
know me. You cannot deceive me.—
Whether your name be Temple or Carter,
you are the person who married my daughter.
Do not say you do not know me.—
There is villainy somewhere. I will
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finit out and you too. Where is my daughter?”
“`I know nothing about your daughter,”
he answered, turning as pale as death, and
endeavoring to free himself from my hold:
but the grasp of an injured father is closer
than iron. We stood in the hall together,
the door having closed as he struggled.—
We stood face to face.
“`My daughter! Where is my child?”
I demanded, “for you are the person who
took her from me. I am a victim to thy
treachery. Why art thou here, when I supposed
thee in Vermont? Speak, and unfold
all this mystery.”
“`I have no mystery to unfold.” he answered.
“I have not seen your daughter.”
`At this instant Charles, who is naturally
bold and intelligent above boys of his age,
shouted to me from up stairs, whither he had
run as we struggled, to see if his sister was
not in the chamber in which he beheld her
at the window. He now called out, “Father,
Ann is here. She is locked up.”
`I had no sooner heard this cry than I
dashed the villain from me across the hall,
and hastened up stairs. I found Charles at
a door. He said his sister was within, calling
upon him by name. I also heard her
voice, “Father, father, save me!”
`With the strength of a lion, and with
something of the lion's rage, I dashed in
the door by kicking against it. There was
my daughter, indeed. I beheld her upon
her knees and in tears. She shrunk from
me, crying, “Forgive me! oh, forgive me.”
I clasped her to my heart. I did not ask
her what I should forgive. The extent
of the evil that had befallen her I did not
know or imagine. “Take me home,” said
she, “take me home, and you shall know
all.”
“`Is not your husband a villain?” I asked
her.
“`He is not my husband!” she cried
in tones of anguish that pierced my bosom.
“He has deceived me by a false name, a
false priest, and a false marriage. The Edward
Carter I supposed I had married was
Edward Temple in disguise. The disguise
and the shop he assumed to effect my ruin;
and God knows how thoroughly he has accomplished
his end. I am degraded and
lost.”
`Such,' continued William Wilson, ` were
my daughter's words to me in the hurried
moments of our meeting. My blood boiled
within me. I saw at once all the villainy of
the impostor, and I did not stop to reflect.
I bade her follow me with her brother, and
hastened down stairs to confront the villain
and avenge myself for the deep wrongs he
had done me. But he had flown, dreading
the vengeance he knew that he so well mer
ited. I took my weeping daughter home
with me. I will not attempt to describe to
you the scene that passed when her mother
met her and learned all that had happened.
We all for a while seemed stupified, so sudden
was the shock, so unlooked for, such a
fall from happiness to infamy and wretchedness.
`None of us slept that night. My daughter
related to us all that had passed. She
said that instead of leaving town when she
took leave of us, that Temple drove to the
house where I had found her. Upon her expressing
her surprise, he said that they were
rooms he had fitted up for her to take possession
of as soon as they returned from
their trip to Vermont; and that he intended
to remain there till the next day, as business
compelled him to delay their departure.—
This explanation was satisfactory to a young
and confiding wife, for wife she supposed
she was, and she went in with him, greatly
delighted and surprised at the elegant style
in which the rooms were furnished. After
she had been there an hour she expressed a
desire to return to her home and let us
know she remained in town. But he said
that it would only make a second parting
necessary; and besides he needed her there
to entertain a party of his friends whom he
had invited to celebrate his wedding. So
as evening arrived several young gentlemen
came,' said my daughter, `each accompanied
by a very handsome young lady, all of
whom she received with kindness and hospitality.
An elegant supper was prepared
to which all sat down, and the evening passed
away in great festivity. But she set all
this gaiety down to the unusual occasion of
a wedding supper; and her suspicions were
not awakened. It is true she thought the
young ladies were rather bold and the young
gentlemen somewhat free in their conversation;
but Temple told her not to mind it,
it was the champagne.
`By some excuse or other he managed to
keep her in the house two days, during all
which time her suspicions were not awakened.
On the morning of the third day he
promised to start for Vermont with her, and
she accompanied him in a carriage out of
town; but it was only to meet the same party
at a fashionable resort in the country a
few miles. Here she began to suspect that
she had married a dissipated man; but no
further did her fears extend. It was on her
return that she was seen by my neighbors.
The crisis now approached when the veil
was to be withdrawn by which she had
been blinded. After she had reached the
house again, she began to urge Temple
with tears to permit her to go and see her
parents. But this he refused, saying they
should leave the next day for Varmont.—
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She represented to him how often he had
promised this, and she feared that there
was something wrong. He laughed and
told me not to fear, she would by and by be
the happiest woman in Boston. He then
left her to go away with one or two friends
who called for him. He had no sooner
gone than she resolved she would secretly
pay us a visit. So she put on her hat and
shawl and hastened down stairs: but was
met in the hall by a servent who told her
she could not go out. `Am I a prisoner?'
she asked surprised. `I have orders to keep
you from going out, Miss.' said the man.
`Miss,' repeated my daughter. `I am a
married woman and beg you will address
me with the respect due to me!'
`At this, the man laughed coarsely and
was about to make some insulting answer,
when the door-bell rang. He went to open
it and admitted a young gentleman who was
a frequent visitor and whom my child had
taken a strong aversion to, from seeing the
bold and lawless admiration with which he
regarded her. She was about retiring up
stairs on beholding him when he called out
to her:—
`Is Temple at home, my dear?'
`He is out,' answered the servant.
`Then I will wait for him. His beauty
here will entertain me pleasantly enough!'
`With these words he approached my
daughter, who alarmed, she hardly knew
why or wherefore, hurried up the stairs. In
three bounds he was by her side and his
arm about her waist, his lips pressed to
hers! She shrieked and endeavored to
break from him. She called on the servant
for aid, who laughed and merely said, `You
had better be cautious, `sir, Mr. Temple
wont like this if she tellshim!'
`I shall certainly inform my husband of
this outrage!' she said releasing herself.
`Your husband, pretty one,' he answered
with a sneer. `Pray who is your husband?'
`Mr. Edward Carter, sir. He will avenge
this insult.'
`Mr. Edward Carter my dear, is none
other than Harry Temple,' said he. `Has
Harry kept up the game so long. I thought
he had told you by this time. Well, as the
cat is out, I may as well tell you that your
supposed husband is the fashionable Harry
Temple. These are his rooms. He pretended
to be a boot-maker to get you to
marry him! But it was no marriage, my
dear; for Dick Shuffle was the priest. The
fact is, my dear, you are Temple's mistress,
and by and by I hope you will be mine.—
He will tire of you in a week and be led off
by some other attraction.'
`The whole truth now flashed with
arrows of fire upon my daughter's senses.
She had heard him called Temple and Har
ry, but he had explained it by saying to her
that he so strikingly resembled Harry Temple
that his friends, in jest, often called him
by the same name! This satisfied her at
the time, but now, all at once, the fearful
truth forced itself upon her mind. Her
head swam, and she sank to the floor insensible.
`When she revived she found this young
man bending over her. She had consciousness
enough to know who it was, and
strength enough to break from his caresses.
She flew to her chamber and locked herself
in. At length Temple returned. She
threw wide the door to admit him, and charged
him with his guilt. At first he was surprised,
but he laughed and confessed that
all she charged him with was the truth. He
then endeavored to soothe her and to induce
her to submit to her fate; but finding it in
vain he left her with curses. He locked
her in. It was shortly after this that Charles
saw her at the window weeping which led
to her discovery and release.'
CHAPTER XIII. THE SURRENDER.
`Your account of Temple's villainy,' said
Mr. Gustavus to William Wilson,' has
painfully interested me. I begin already
to see the heavy causes which led to his
death by your hand. Will you inform me
how this occurred?'
`Although I have made my story so very
long,' answered Wilson, `still this remains
to be told. By this time I see that both of
you look upon me with more sympathy
than before. I trust I shall show you that
I have done only what every man placed
in my situation, would have been strongly
tempted to do. I have told you that the
same night I brought her home, none
of us slept. I walked the room till dawn,
planning some mode of vengeance—some
way of punishing the offender. I had been
wounded most grievously in my honor,
as a father and a man! My daughter, by
a false and inquitous marriage had been
degraded. I thought of an appeal to the
law; but what could the law do? He
was rich, I was poor. I should be defeated,
perhaps; and ruin would follow disgrace.
Day broke upon me before I had
resolved what course to pursue. I ate no
breakfast. I sallied out and hastened to
the old bootman's. I resolved to ascertain
how far he had been a partner in this false
scheme of guilt against me and mine. I
soon found he had been deceived, and when
I told him what had been done he was
overcome with surprise and indignation.
He advised me to take the law of Temple.
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Leaving him I went straight to the dwelling
of the imposter, hoping to find him in,
and resolved to compel him to marry my
child honestly. For the purpose of enforcing
my resolution, I armed myself with
a small hatchet, that I took from my workshop.
I had no intention of using it, but
only to intimidate and compel him to do
as I wished. He was not home. The
servant said he had not been in since the
the day previous, and had probably gone
to New York. I left the house filled with
grief and a burning desire of vengeance
upon the head of the despoiler. More
than once I resolved to start at once for
New York, and I was only deterred from
going by a suspicion that the villain was
still in the city. I wandered about all
day. I could not bear to return to my now
wretched home. I went into every resort
frequented by dissipated youth, in hopes to
meet him. Night came upon me, and I
slowly sought my dishonoured roof. I
entered and sat down in silence. My wife
seeing my distressed looks did not speak.
But I observed she wished to say something,
and I at length asked what it was.—
She asked me if I had seen Ann. This
was the name of my poor child. I inquired
if she was not home; she said that
she had left soon after breakfast, saying
she would soon be back. There was new
cause for grief, sir. The idea flashed upon
my mind that she had gone to drown herself.
This I suggested to my wife, and
thus filled my house with lamentations.—
`Better die, than live a dishonored life,'
said I; but I rose up and went forth to
seek her, not knowing where to go. But
walking, and the air out of doors helped
the pressure upon my heart.'
`Sir,' said Mr. Gustavus, pressing his
hand in his, `be assured I deeply feel for
you.'
`If I ever pitied a man in my life,' said
David Dalton, `it is you, William Nelson.
I don't blame you now, if you had met and
killed the villain. He deserved it.'
`No man, Mr. Dalton,' said Mr. Gustavus,
should take the law into his own
hands. Whatever may be the grievance,
the law of the land should be appealed to
for protection.'
`You are right, sir,' said William Wilson,
`I feel that you are right. I should
have left my case in the hands of my country;
but you shall hear what followed.—
After I left my house I bent my steps instinctively
towards the residence of Henry
Temple. I came opposite the house and
stood in the shade of the building, on
the other side of the street watching it.
I stood there an hour brooding over my
wrongs. I felt that the destroyer of my
peace was there concealed; I resolved to
enter the house by force and search for
him. I crossed the street with my hatchet
in my hand to batter the door in; for I believe,
sir, I was not exectly in my sane
mind, else I should not have adopted such
a course which would at once have placed
me under arrest, but I did not reflect. I
had but one idea, that of my child's disgrace,
and vengeance upon the wrongdoer;
just as I was about to ascend the
steps, I heard two persons coming along
the walk: I drew back into a recess adjoining
the house to wait till they should
pass. As they came near, I overheard
their conversation, and hearing Temple's
name uttered I was all ears. They stopped
at the door and continued to talk, for
they were to separate there; from their
words I learned that Temple was in town,
and that my daughter had taken up with
a life of prostitution She had fled, it
appeared, from my house, for the purpose
of finding Temple, to urge him to redress
her great wrong hy marrying her—instead
of meeting him, she met at the house of one
of his friends who deceitfully promised
to see her righted; and told her if she
would go to his rooms he would send for
Temple, and there compel him to marry
her. She believed him, and went along
with him, but the result was that she soon
found herself deceived. She, at length,
finding her ruin inevitable, and dreading to
return to home consented, in a sort of despair,
to remain with him upon the terms
he proposed to her. Gladly would I pass
over this revelation of my child's sudden
descent into depravity. These facts I
learned from the conversation I overheard,
for it was wholly about Temple and my
lost child. One of the young men was the
person who had thus beguiled her—they
parted, and the young fellow went on,
while the other entered the house. I followed
the former to ascertain where my
child was, and saw him go to his house.—
As he entered, I entered with him, and
found my child, but she fled on seeing me.
I implored her to return with me, when
she answered that her destiny was fixed,
and that all I could say would not move
her; she said she was lost, and that she
could never dishonour my roof by returning
to it.
`I then left the house in despair, and my
bosom on fire with vengeance, and thus
lost my child for ever, and I had but one
desire left, and this was to avenge myself
upon her destroyer. I knelt in the street,
and raising my hands to heaven, swore that
I would neither eat nor drink until I had
avenged my dishonour.
`I went back to his house, for I was
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fully persuaded he was there; I did not
approach by the street but in the rear; I
climbed the area fence, and descended into
the yard, and then stole up the steps
of the back piazza. I took off my shoes
and noiselessly crossed it; I could see the
faint glow of a light through the crimson
curtains of the back parlour windows.—
These windows reached to the floor of the
piazza.
`I listened at one of them. I heard
laughter. Temple's voice reached my ears.
It had a terrible effect upon me. I heard
him boasting of his deed of villainy. I was
maddened. I did not stop to see whether
the window was fastened. I raised my
hatchet, and in three blows dashed in the
sash, and, amid the wreck of glass I leaped
into the room. He had been seated at a
supper table with two of his companions,
but all three sprung with alarm to their
feet on my entrance in this manner. He at
once recognized me, and seeing me armed
with the gleaming hatchet, uttered a cry of
alarm, and fled from the room followed by
his friends. I pursued. I came up with
him in the hall. I seized him by the throat
and with one blow of my hatchet I struck
him to the floor. I clove his skull. He fell
dead without a groan, at my feet. What
followed I hardly recollect, till I found myself
wandering on the Common. Doubtless
the instinct of self-preservation had led
me to effect my escape as soon as I found
I had killed him; but I do not recollect escaping.
I had reached the Common, I
know not how. I still held the bloody weapon
in my hand. I threw it far from me
into the pond. I then conceived the idea of
surrendering myself to justice. I felt glad
at the act. My revenge had been satisfied.
I had punished with death the despoiler of
my house. I had wiped off the dishonor in
his blood. I walked towards Tremont
street. I saw a watchman and approached
him to tell him what I had done, and surrender
myself. But the thought of my poor
wife and children came over me. I hesitated.
I turned aside, resolving at first to go
home and see them, and do something to
provide for their safety and support, ere I
left them destitute. My wife was sitting up.
I told her all that I had done—of the utter
loss of our child, and of the murder of her
destroyer.
`She prevailed on me, at length, to conceal
myself. I yielded to her tears and
prayers and those of my children. For several
weeks, I have been hiding under various
disguises. I have been on the verge
of arrest repeatedly. No less than nine
times have the officers of justice been
searching the house; but the devotion of
my wife has saved me from discovery. In
the meanwhile my family has been reduced
to poverty and want. I resolved this morning
that I would hide no longer, but give
myself up and bear the worst. Your goodness,
gentlemen, to my family, has inspired
me to make a full disclosure to you. Mr.
Gustavus, I have now made all known
to you. Your advice I will abide by, as I
know that you will advise me wisely. I do
not seek to palliate my crime. I have told
you the whole of the circumstahces, that I
may show you that the deed I have committed
was not unprovoked.'
`Your account, Mr. Wilson, said Mr.
Gustavus, has been listened to by me with
the deepest interest. I am glad you have
told me all. Your guilt is greatly extenuated
by the circumstances. Believe me
that a jury of your country will acquit you
when they have heard all the circumstances
as I have heard them. My advice to you
is, that you surrender yourself to-day into
the hands of justice. I will see the judge
at once, and inform him of all you have told
me, and an officer shall call for you and
take you quietly away to prison. During
your detention there I pledge myself so see
that your family is in want of nothing.'
`Sir, you are too generous.'
`By no means. I will see that you have
able counsel. Your case shall be managed
with justice and equity, and I promise you
an acquital before the tribunal of the land.
Are you willing to abide a trial?'
`I will do it most cheerfully, sir. I shall
feel far better, whether I am condemned or
acquitted, than I do now. So long as I
have nothing to fear on my poor wife's account,
I will cheerfully go to jail.'
`I think this is your best course, William,
' said David Dalton. `You will have
every husband and father in town on your
side, believe me. I don't blame you. I
should have done the same. He deserved
death; but I wish it had been by the hangman
rather than by your hand. But as his
crime was not capital, he would have escaped
with a fine, which he was well able to
pay. I agree with Mr. Gustavus, that a
man better not take the law in his own
hands, 'specially such a serious thing as
killing a villain: but as you have done so,
I think for one you will be justified, and a
jury will acquit you on what is called justifiable
homicide.'
`Hardly, Mr. Dalton,' said Mr. Gustavus,
smiling, `hardly on that ground. Mr. Wilson
will be acquitted I trust, on the ground
of mercy and sympathy with a father who
in a state of phrenzy, and under excitement
of mind amounting to insanity, punished
with death the dishonorer of his child.'
`So he is acquitted I care not how it is,'
answered David stoutly, rising up as Mr.
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Gustavus had done, to go. `Take heart,
ma'am. Nobody blames your husband.—
He will come out bright. Don't doubt it.'
`Indeed, sir, I cannot doubt it. It was a
fearful thing for him to take the life of
another, but I do hope and believe he will
be acquitted when all the provocation he
had is known. It is better he should give
himself up. His mind will feel easier; and
since you speak so encouragingly, I shall
not say a word against his going to prison.'
Mr. Gustavus in a few moments left, after
bidding William Wilson to keep up good
courage. David went with him, saying he
meant to be back again after he had been
to his family, and go with him and the officer
to the prison.
We shall not describe the feelings of
mingled sadness and hope which filled the
hearts of this family after the departure of
their two kind benefactors William Wilson
dressed himself in his ordinary male
attire, shaved, and calmly waited for the officer
to whom he was to deliver himself.—
Anny busied herself in mending some of
his clothing, and in preparing something
for him for him to eat before he should go.
Charles plead earnestly to be permitted to
accompany him, but was finally content to
remain when his father told him how useful
he would be to his mother.
At length the carriage arrived, and Mr.
Gustavus, David, and a pleasant looking officer
came in together. William rose, and
going up to the officer, said,
`I surrender myself to you, as I suppose
you have come for me.'
The parting was sorrowful with his family;
but when Mr. Gustavus assured his
wife and children that they could see him
every day, they dried their tears and surrendered
him with hope and prayers of
faith to the custody of the law. In a few
minutes afterwards they all entered the carriage
and drove away towards the prison.
CHAPTER XIV. THE WINDING UP OF EVENTS.
The arrest and imprisonment of William
Wilson created no little excitement in the
community. The penny papers the next
morning came out with columns headed
by large capitals announcing the event;
and newsboys proclaimed in shrill tones to
every passer-by, that their papers contained
a full account of the arrest and confession
of `Wilson the murderer of Henry
Temple.'
For a day or two this subject was the
oaly one talked upon. Some hoped he
would be hanged, while others believed
hat he would escape conviction. All
seemed to agree in the opinion that Temple
had deserved his fate; for the fact that
he had ruined Wilson's daughter now came
out.
In the meanwhile the unhappy man remained
an inmate of the prison to the custody
of which had voluntarily surrendered
himself. Through the agency of Mr. Gustavus,
excellent council was engaged for
him in the person of a gentleman of the
highest order of talent, and who had more
than once devoted it to the defence of the
innocent and unfortunate. The papers at
length got hold of the true merits of the
case, and publishing the whole story of
Temple's deceptions, enlisted public sympathy
in favor of the prisoner.
In the solitude of his cell he was not
without consolation. Although he condemned
himself for his hasty act and regretted
deeply at having taken the life of a
human being, when the law was open to
avenge and protect, still the innate consciousness
that Temple had mortally
wronged him and brought his death upon
himself by his own crimes, lessened much
the weight of guilt upon his mind. He was
daily visited by the lovely Anny, who
brought him many little comforts, and
books, and sat and read to him, mostly out
of the bible. At home his wife's situation
he knew was made more endurable by the
kindness of Mr. Gustavus, who also daily
visited him and encouraged him with the
hope of acquital, or, if he should be convicted,
of prompt pardon by the Governor.
The enemies of William Wilson were
active in their efforts to bring him to the
gallows. They were the relatives of Temple,
and were actuated by all that better
hostility which so often exhibits itself in
the revenge which is taken up by kindred
for one of their own blood. They had engaged
the most effectual council they could
obtain, and openly expressed their confidence
that Wilson would yet swing for the
crime he had been guilty of.
While so many individuals were interested
in this matter, did it not produce any
effect upon the young girl, Ann Wilson,
who was indirectly the couse of all that
had transpired? Did not the death of her
lover—the wretched flight of her father
pursued by justice—his arrest and imprisonment,
and his approaching trial for
his life, move her?
We will follow her and seek her out and
learn whether these things impressed her.
It was late the morning after her father's
arrest that she came down stairs into a
parlor, gorgeously furnished, but every
thing now strewed around in the utmost
confusion. The curtains were closely
drawn, and shutters closed,
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ten o'clock. A lamp burned dimly upon
the side-board, which was covered with
wine glasses and decanters, some of them
overturned. A table in the midst of the
room was strewn with cards and splashed
with spilled wine. Cards were upon the
carpet also. A chair was upset, and a
broken wine glass near it had been crushed
under the heel and gronnd into the carpet.
The young girl who entered paused as
she advanced a step into this bacchanalian
chaos, and looking around her, curled her
lip with scorn and contempt.
`This is very fine,' said she. `I will
teach George better doings than this. He
invites a set of his friends here who keep
me awake till day-break, and then go off,
leaving uproar behind them. George,' she
said, stepping acrsss the room to a sofa
where tay stretched out in deep sleep a
young man in his vest and shirt-sleeves.
He did not answer, as she stood and bent
her eyes fixedly upon him, as he lay with
his head partly hanging over the side of
the sofa.
She looked very beautiful as she thus
stood bending intently and with an anxious
air over him. She was youthful, scarce
seventeen years having gone over her head—
years of innocence and peace until within
two months past, when the despoiler came
and hurled her with himself into the vortex
of guilt. She was a bolder and handsomer
likeness of her lovely twin-sister,
Anny. She had all Anny's delicacy of features,
but with more fire in the eye—more
decision in the lip. Perhaps the events of
the last few weeks had stamped a new
character there. It is likely it was so.—
Woman, once fallen, falls low! If a stain
come upon the robes of her virgin purity,
she does not hesitate to plunge into the
fountain of guilt and dye them all over.
Her fall is like that of a star, sudden, brilliant,
and darkness all! No sooner had
Ann Wilson, naturally a proud girl, found
herself degraded through the deceit and
wickedness of her lover, than with a recklessness,
all unaccountable, yet common to
her sex in such circumstances, she gave
herselt up without reserve to the current of
her fate. She became, after Temple's
death, the mistress of a gay young gentleman,
and gave herself up to a life of the
wildest, maddest enjoyment. She seemed
suddenly to have been converted into a
Circe. There was no excess of guilty
pleasure that she did not take the lead in.
The horrible death of Temple, instead of
appalling her, only seemed to inspire her
with ferocious joy. Those who knew Anny
Wilson in her maiden modesty would
never have recognised her now.
Proud of his conquest, proud of her wit
and beauty, George — took her with
him to New York and other places. She
was about four weeks pursuing a round of
pleasure of the most exciting kind. She
returned only the afternoon of her father's
arrest. She had not wholly forgotten her
home. She resolved that she would go
and see them that very evening, and give
them money, for she knew that they were
poor. That evening there was a supper at
George Shelton's rooms, and she was detained
by him to preside.
The guests remained late, and departed,
leaving him upon the sofa insensible
through wine; but one of them before quitting
took care secretly to steal his pocket-book.
It was now ten o'clock, and still he
slept. She bent over him with an anxious
earnest air. For a moment she thought he
was dead. She repeated his name nervously
again, when he opened his eyes and
fixed them vacantly upon her.
`Come, George, it is the middle of the
forenoon: I am going out, and you must
get up.'
He rose to his feet, and looking at her
sternly, said:
`You are not going out!'
`I am,' she responded firmly. `Do you
suppose I have forgotten my mother and
my father? I am not quite so lost as that.'
`If you go out of this house you shall
never enter it again!'
`Very well—there are enough that I can
enter,' she answered with a smile that he
did not like.
`I will give you an hour.'
`I shall come back when I choose—I am
not your slave, George Shelton!'
At this moment the lazy servant-girl
brought in the morning paper, which had
been for the last three hours stuck in the
latch of the street door.
`Give it to me,' said Shelton; and taking
it from her he sat down and opened it, at
the same time ordering her to bring him
coffee. `Ha! what is this? Here is news
for you, Anny,' he said abruptly.
`What is it?' she eagerly asked.
`I see that they have nabbed your father.
Look there! He is in jail, and will be tried
for his life!' As he spoke he showed her
the paragraph; which she had no sooner
read than she burst into tears.
`My poor father!'
`I hope they will hang him—he deserves
it for killing such a fine fellow as Temple!'
`If my father's hand had not avenged
me, mine should!' she answered with a
spirit that made him start.
`Your's!'
`Yes, mine! He deserved the death he
got. He was base, craven, and full of guilt.
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I am only sorry that his death should put
in jeopardy my father's life. Had he fallen
by my hand, willingly would I die, feeling
that I had lived long enough.'
`Why, Ann, you are a perfect little demon—
I am really afraid of you!'
`You have not injured me as Henry
Temple did—I neither fear nor love you.
Him I first loved and then hated. My poor
father! Oh, that I could save him. I will
hasten to him.'
`He would spurn you, you well know.'
`True—you speak too truly, George. He
would refuse to see me—he knows that I
have thrown myself away. But I will see
my mother; she will receive me—she will
forgive me! I have a sister and a brother
too, who still will love me. This news of
my dear father's imprisonment has brought
all back again. Oh, that I were once more
what I have been!'
`Ann, where is my pocket-book?' he
said, missing his money.
`I do not know.'
`It had three hundred dollars in it in
bills. You have taken it: you mean to desert
me, and have stolen it.'
`Had I such an intention I should not
first have waked you,' she answered with
scorn and an expression of contempt on
her fine features. `If you have lost it, it
has been taken by some one of your
cronies.'
`They were gentlemen! It is in your
possession—give it back to me!' he cried in
anger.
`I have not seen it; do not anger me,
George.'
`I will have you arrested! Surrender it
and I will say nothing more.'
`I know nothing about it,' she answered.
`Seek it among your friends.'
As she spoke she turned away from him,
as if to leave the house. With a deep oath
he sprung after her and caught her by the
shoulder; she escaped from him up stairs.
He followed and came up with her in her
chamber, but not before she had caught up
a dirk that lay upon the toilet table. It
was a jewelled toy of his own. She confronted
him with it upraised. He struggled
to get possession of it, and received it to
the hilt in his breast! With a cry of horror
and pain he fell backward, and expired
cursing her as the cause of his death. For
a moment she remained gazing upon the
bleeding corpse of her paramor, and with
a shriek of despair buried the ensanguined
weapon in her own heart, and fell dead
upon his body!
The tragic end of his child was not made
known to Wilson until three days after it
had occurred, and then he read it in the
sad looks of Ann, the lovely lame girl who
so affectionately devoted herself to him.
It required all the encouragement of Mr.
Gustavus, David, and the sight of his destitute
family, to enable him to bear up under
this new trial. At length he became
composed, and seemed to rejoice in her
death, saying,
`It is better that she is gone! She will
have less guilt to answer for at the bar of
heaven! Wife, I care little to live—I shall
be glad if I am condemned to death. When
I am gone, you will find friends. It will
grieve me to part from you, and Ann, and
Charles; but my heart is broken—my spirit
crushed! I can never hold up my head
again. It is better that I should be found
guilty, and be mercifully sent out of a
world where I find only misery. As for
you and my two little lambs, God will temper
to you the winds, and bless you!'
The day of the trial came; but notwithstanding
the talents of his counsel, the efforts
of the benevolent Mr. Gustavus, the
sympathy of the public, he was convicted,
but recommended to the mercy of the
court. The judge gave sentence of death
upon him; but the same night waited on
the governor, and prayed him to exercise
his prerogative and pardon him. Numerous
similar applications were made, but
without success. Several criminals had
been pardoned of late by the executives of
other States, and great complaints were
made by the press about it. The governor
felt that it was necessary to make an example,
and turned a deaf ear to all the appeals
which were daily made to him. His
answer invariably was:
`Men must know that while there are
laws in the land, they must not take vengeance
into their own hands!'
So, in order that men might learn this
wholesome truth—and not for his crime—
William Wilson was hanged. His wife
the same day died of a broken. Ann ha
since become the wife of Mr. Gustavuss
and Charles is a promising civil engineer,
and engaged to be married to the youngest
daughter of David Dalton.
THE END.
