CHAPTER XV. PUFFER HOPKINS INQUIRES AFTER HOBBLESHANK.
“All is lost, all is lost!” The piteous look and tone
with which the old man had uttered these words,
lingered in the ear of Puffer Hopkins, long after they had
parted, and came up in every interval of business and
labor, to fill the pause and excite in his mind a vague
wonder as to what they might refer. Some deep trouble
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—some profound grief, reaching through years, and embracing
the whole hope of the old man's life they seemed
to point at. He resumed the pursuit in which the messenger
had found him engaged, but every now and then,
there started out of the papers before him the woe-stricken
face of Hobbleshank and he heard his voice, repeating
again and again, that all was lost, lost. Wavering in this
way between idleness and toil, night drew on; a dark,
stormy and troubled night; winds howling about the
Fork, clamoring at the chamber-windows, where he lay,
as if demanding entrance; subsiding, springing up afresh,
and suggesting to the watcher, to whom the turmoil would
not allow sleep, thoughts of poor sailors far abroad, sailing
on the wide ocean, reefing and gathering canvass, or
lying-to, for shelter's sake, in cold harbors, or drifting
along on the pitiless tide.
Perplexed by thought of storm and tempest, in the
midst of all which his mind had recurred to the subject of
yesterday, Puffer awoke, and after in vain endeavoring
to shake off the gloomy shadow of the old man, that still
haunted his chamber, he resolved to call at the lodgings
of Hobbleshank and seek there further confirmation of
the good or evil of his thoughts.
Making good speed for the fulfilment of this purpose,
he was soon apparelled and in the open air. The sky
was clear as if no cloud had ever crossed it; the house-tops
lay basking in the early sun; and the streets, half shadow,
half light, were filled with a throng of people come forth
to enjoy the tranquillity of the morning. The distance
was not great, and he found the place he sought at once,
and in a moment was directly at the entrance of the
chamber, where he knew by his description, Hobbleshank
lodged.
The door was ajar, and Puffer entered without notice.
On either side of the hearth the two old women were
seated, discoursing in a whisper. A night-taper flickered
in its socket on the shelf; the fire was smouldering and
expiring in its own ashes, and the sun-light, as it streamed
through the small window in the wall, showed the features
of the two women, haggard, care-worn and anxious.
The elder was speaking as he came in.
“Why do you say me nay, when I tell you it must have
tumbled in such a night; I'm not deaf, good woman,
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though seventy and past—Heaven save us! Do you
think I did not hear the storm, howling and raging?
Your own eyes saw the chimney fall, and the same wind
that blows down chimney-stacks must overturn steeples
and church tops. Let me see—it was built before the
war, so it had lived to a good old age, and was cut down
not a minute before its time.”
“Why do you vex yourself with thinking in this way,
Aunt Gatty?” asked the other, laying her hand gently
in her arm and looking her anxiously in the face. “The
storm was heavy. God help our poor old friend that was
abroad in it; but the city still stands!”
“Be not too sure of that!” answered the other. “Have
a care! Are you quite clear that the fire-bell was not
ringing all through the night? I heard it in every pause
of the storm; and what is not blown over, you may be
sure was burned up.”
“Grant it so,” said Dorothy. “Grant as you say, that
the city was ravaged and torn from end to end by fire and
tempest, it was no fault of ours!”
“No fault of ours, do you say?” cried Aunt Gatty,
turning suddenly about, and laughing hysterically in her
face. “Then all that howling of winds meant nothing?
All the ships that went ashore or were dashed against
piers and wharves, did it in mere sport!—Ha! ha!
Children that perished in the streets, or in dwellings
drearier than the open street, and beasts frozen in the
field, were all in a frolic?—ha! ha! No, no,” she continued,
dropping her voice to a fearful whisper, “these
were judgments: come near to me and I'll tell you
how.”
Dorothy, at this bidding drew close to her side, and
watched for what she said.
“Where was the old man last night?” she asked;
“can you tell me that?”
“Heaven knows!” echoed the other. “It's morning,
and he has not come.”
“Did we go search for him?—Did we waken neighbors,
and raise the cry that a good old man was perishing somewhere,
and hurry off in hunt for him? Did we ring bells
and alarm all sleepers through the town—that we do,
when even a worthless old building of boards is burning—
why not for a dear old friend? No, no—he's dead,” she
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cried in a voice that pierced the ear to the quick. “Dead
somewhere, and his blood is on our old idle heads! Dead!
dead!”
With this she turned away, and, heeding no further
any speech that was addressed to her, sate in the corner
of the hearth, mumping, and muttering unintelligibly to
herself. At this moment Puffer Hopkins came forward,
and made inquiry for Hobbleshank.
“Good Lord! you did not know then that the old man
has been absent all night long!” she answered, sighing;
“she knows it: she knows it too well!—all night in the
rough weather: Heaven send that he has found shelter in
some shed, or under some poor roof, although it's not to be
hoped. Have you seen the old man of late? you are his
friend.”
“I am; and saw him but yesterday morning,” answered
Puffer. “I expected, from what passed then, to find
him downcast, but safe at home at least.”
“Good angels help us all!” cried Dorothy, fixing her
eyes upon the ceiling; “was he calm when you left him,
or was he stirred with a passion?”
“Greatly moved, I must confess: cut to the very heart,
if I might judge by what fell from him,” answered Puffer.
“He was in despair, and left me weeping, hurrying
swiftly away!”
“I knew it would be so,” exclaimed Dorothy—“I
knew it would be so! Arouse, Aunt Gatty, arouse,” she
continued, bending down to the ear of her companion,
and crying at the top of her voice. “This gentleman has
seen Hobbleshank; and has seen him fly away from him
like one distracted!—Do you hear me?”
“Did you say Joe was dead?” answered Aunt Gatty,
gazing at the other like one in a dream. “I thought such
a storm was too much for him!” And she relapsed
again into silence, or mumbled in confused and broken
words.
“Poor thing!—she thinks of her Joe that was drowned
half a lifetime since: watching all night through, with
age and infirmity, have bewildered her brain. She thinks,
sorrowful creature, that St. Paul's steeple, too, fell in the
storm last night: nothing can drive it from her mind; and,
because a neighbor's chimney was overturned, and a few
tiles blown through the street, she will have it that the
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storm has made a wreck of the city, leaving no stone
upon another!—Poor thing!”
“Then you have no tidings of Hobbleshank, and cannot
tell where he passed the night?” asked Puffer.
“None whatever. He left us,” said Dorothy, “yesterday,
a little after noon in cheerful spirits, for he had
learned, by a poor stranger that came in from the country,
something relating to his child that was lost many years
ago. He said that a few hours would bring him back a
happy man: it will be happiness enough for us, alas!—
for this poor old woman, that has been his friend and
companion for fifteen years, if he come back alive!”
“Who was this poor stranger, that you speak of?”
continued Puffer. “Is he known to any one here? or did
he utter his news aloud?”
“The stranger,” answered Dorothy, “was stained
with travel, and bore with him a parcel, which he did not
open in our presence: Aunt Gatty thought it might be
some garment of the child's that was lost. They spake
apart—the stranger pointing often to the parcel under his
arm; something was said of a bed-ridden man, whom we
could not guess; and then they went forth together.
Since then the old man has not returned.”
“What noise was that?” cried Aunt Gatty, starting up
at this moment, and looking up earnestly into the face of
Puffer Hopkins. “A heavy wall has fallen; you heard
the bell jingle as it fell?—it tolls for him!”
“For Heaven's sake give her comfort,” said Dorothy,
appealing to Puffer, who stood aside, not knowing how to
answer this sudden question; “tell her the city is not in
ruins—that no church-steeple is cast down.”
“St. Paul's stands this morning,” answered Puffer,
“where it has stood many thousand mornings; the sun
shines upon its weathercock as high in air as ever. Would
that Hobbleshank could be found as securely as that!”
“Hobbleshank!” echoed Aunt Gatty, “I knew him in
his life-time: he was an excellent old man; and sorely
tried; let me see, where was he laid? In Trinity yard;
oh, no, that was too full. In the middle burying-ground.
He had no right there, poor man; he was not stout enough
to fill a grave. Ha! ha! I have it, it was in the old
brewery well, where Tom was drowned; they buried him
there, because he knew Tom, when the poor boy was
alive.”
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“Does she indeed think her old friend to be dead?”
asked Puffer, looking from one to the other.
“She does, and its that that has unsettled her mind,”
answered Dorothy: “Her life seems to hang by some
strange link, an invisible thread, on that of the old man:
with him she seems to think the sun is blotted out and
all things fallen into decay, like herself. For her sake,
I would that Hobbleshank might return.”
“There was no mark, then, by which you could guess
his purpose, or the course he might take to bring it about?”
said Puffer Hopkins; “nothing by which you could judge,
further than it involved a thought of the lost child—on
what his mind was fixed?”
“Did I say there was nothing more? I was wrong.
He wore with him when he left, he came back for it, a
woman's likeness, painted in a breast-pin; the pin was a
great square one, and the lady a mild lovely creature,
with gentle eyes. He took it from the closet, and fixed
it in his breast, where it had not been, in my knowledge,
ever before. His look softened when his eye fell on it;
and his step was slower, it seemed to me, and more
thoughtful, when he left, than it had been when he came
in. I thought the lady's face had touched his heart.”
“It's all darkness and shadow to me now,” said Puffer,
pondering and fixing his eyes upon the ground, “darkness,
with a single ray of light: you have told me all?”
“All! But do, I pray you, bring back the old man;
seek for him, as you would for your own father! Spare
no time, night or day to track his steps. There is some
deep trust rests upon him—some great wrong to be avenged.
If he die in the streets, with sealed lips; if his old
life should be taken by wicked hands—and such may be
watching for him—who shall answer? Will you try,
will you seek him out? Promise me on your truth!”
As the woman spake she raised both her hands, and
letting them fall, as in benediction, on the person of him
she addressed, she watched him silently for an answer.
“I am but poor and helpless myself,” answered Puffer,
“with few friends and narrow means; I know not
what I can do, but, in God's name, I will do what I can;
what a friendless and fatherless young man may hope to
do.”
“For his sake—for her's—for your own humanity's
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sake, be true to what you would do!” exclaimed Dorothy,
glancing from the helpless old creature at the hearth toward
Puffer, who stood, glowing with his good resolution,
by the door.
She had uttered the entreaty; turned to the old woman,
who began to speak again; and, when she had turned
again, Puffer was gone.
Mathews, Cornelius, 1817-1889 [1842], The career of Puffer Hopkins (D. Appleton & Co., New York) [word count] [eaf264].
