He sat down a few moments, and then informed them that the meeting was over. Some arose, but stopped and looked wistfully towards the desk, as though they might yet hear something more; others sat still and wept. Henry prepared to depart; he walked slowly through the benches, preceded by a few persons who were leaving the house.
As he approached the door, his hand was seized in a powerful grasp. He looked round, and recognized at once his warm-hearted friend, old Mr. Cutter. He sat on the end of one of the benches, and by his side was Billy Bloodgood. Billy looked at him and nodded and smiled, while he wiped away the tears that overflowed his twinkling eyes. Billy had not heard a word, but he had a very tender heart; he was rejoiced to be where God was worshipped, and when he saw all around him affected, he yielded to the impulse, and wept too. Uncle Sam had heard, and every word had gone deep into his heart. It was no sympathy of feeling with those around him, that caused the big tears to flow so freely; he thought of none but himself and his God: his sinful lost estate had been set before him: he knew it was his own, he felt it to be true. He listened to the voice of the speaker, telling him of the love of God, and inviting him to trust in it; he believed, and yielding to the call of mercy, had cast himself into the arms of his Saviour, and found peace. No wonder that he seized with such convulsive grasp the hand of the dear youth. Henry fixed his eyes upon the old man; he saw his emotion, he saw his lips quivering in a vain effort to speak. His own heart ached, and tears came to his relief. Mr. Cutter made a desperate effort, shaking the hand which he still held,
'God bless you! God bless you!'
Henry hurried away to his home.
Long was this day and this meeting remembered in the place. It was the commencement of a great moral change; the darkness which had so long brooded over it was rolled back, and the light that streams from Heaven's mercy came to bless their spirits. A train of rich and lasting benefits followed quick, and spread a charm over this long neglected and desolate spot, which, from a dreary wilderness, converted it into a garden of the Lord.
CHAPTER XIII.
Six years in the early part of our life makes a mighty change in our personal appearance, the current of our feelings, and our course in life. Childhood and youth are ever anticipating the fancied joys of twenty-one, but that blissful period once past, and the goal reached, how much of innocent and heartfelt happiness is left behind! But time must on, and we must on with him, and meet each era of our being as best we may.
Six years have made a vast change in the face of things within our village. The little store, which Jim and Ned started in the wood-shed of their mother's house, has been transferred to a large and commodious building situated near the water, and contiguous to a wharf, where are snug moorings for the good sloop Fanny, now under the command of Sam Oakum. Along the shore, where the few fishermen's huts alone gave signs of life in former days, are now decent dwellings. Docks and building: the frames of vessels of various size are lying in their cradles; and the noise of the lively hammer can be heard through the long summer day. Young men, the former companions of our boys, are now engaged at their trades, or preparing to man the different vessels when ready for a voyage. Above the beach, and in the town more properly, as great a change is manifest; old houses are neatly repaired, and new lines of fences supply the places of the old, tattered inclosures; while here and there, on sites commanding the finest views of the beautiful water scenery, are mansions that bespeak the wealth and taste of their owners; and, to crown all, a neat church sends up its lofty spire from a knoll near the water's edge, the last object that holds the eye of the mariner as he leaves this his native home to breast the stormy ocean, and the first to bless it on his return, and bid him think of Him whose wonders he has seen on the deep.
All these results have not been accomplished alone by those whose youthful energies gave the first spring to life and activity in the place.
Things had, indeed, gone prosperously with them. Their trade, although small at first, rapidly increased; the opportunity they afforded the inhabitants to dispose of their productions advantageously, soon stimulated to increased cultivation. A display of goods from the city introduced a better and neater style of dress, and that led to more neatness in their dwellings, and every thing around them. The timber from the barrens became an article of great demand; and those comparatively valueless wilds bade fair to yield an immense revenue to their owners.
But in addition to all this, a few wealthy families from other parts, attracted by the pleasantness of the location, had come among them; and with these was the early patron of our boys—Major Morris and his lovely family. He had not retired from the service; for the sound of war was rumbling in the distance, and dark clouds were fast rising on our political horizon, and it was no time for a brave and good man to withdraw from his country's need. But he was tired of the unsettled manner of life to which he had been so long subjected, and resolved, so soon as a favorable opportunity should offer, to retire, and enjoy the sweets of home and domestic life. He had long admired the location, but perhaps might not have decided to make it his place of residence, but for an old friend of his—one whose life had been spent upon the ocean, and who could no more be easy without the sight and smell of salt-water than the fish who sport upon its sunny bosom—Commodore Trysail, a bluff, high-tempered, warm-hearted sailor. He had won high honors early in life, but for some cause, in an hour of excitement, had thrown up his commission. He had amassed a handsome fortune since then by engaging in the East India trade; and although never condescending to command even his own ship, he had made several voyages to Bengal, attending solely to business matters. He had now some fine vessels of his own, and having relinquished all idea of going abroad, had resolved to locate where he could enjoy what he had so long been accustomed to, without storms and billows. Having visited the place, in company with Major Morris, he was at once charmed, and they both decided to make it their home, and do what they could to build up things around them. No wonder, then, if six years has affected such an entire change in the aspect of things.
Mr. Grizzle was yet alive, and kept his old place, but his stock of goods had not been replenished for some years. The advantage of the new store were too many for him to compete with. Goods new and cheap, a generous price for all country produce, respectability of character, good manners, and perfect fairness in dealing, all these made the odds too much for Mr. Grizzle to contend against. He gave it up. One corner of his counter yet received a few visitors; for through the day could be frequently seen some old tottering wreck of humanity, with bald head, and long thin locks, stirring eagerly the ancient toddy-stick in a large flowered tumbler, and then, with trembling hand, raising the much-loved mixture to his longing lips, already quivering with age, and soon to be at rest in the grasp of death.
There had been, for some time past, a little mystery about a newly-erected house—and mysteries in small towns are always troublesome things. It was a neat and pleasant cottage, finished with much taste, and with every convenience for a small family. It had been placed on a very pretty location, not far from the hut where Sam Oakum and his parents lived, just on the rising ground which overlooked their humble place of abode, and commanded a full view of the whole panorama of bay and land and ocean, that stretched before the eye to the distant horizon. The question could not be solved all the while it was building, for whom this pleasant habitation was intended. Curiosity was on tiptoe; it formed the subject for many a long gossip over cup of tea, and so awakened the imagination of our good ladies, that all sorts of stories were circulated in reference to it.
'Can any body tell me?' said Aunt Sally Bloodgood—as she sat pouring out tea to a select party of her own, with a tea-pot in one hand and a water-pot in the other, dressed in her new calico gown of the freshest pattern, and no more looking like Aunt Sally when we first saw her, than nothing at all. Casting her eye round, as she put the two pots down, upon the inquisitive countenances of her neighbors—'Can any body tell me whose that house is a building for?' and after looking round from one to the other, her eye finally settled upon her good friend Mrs. Cutter, as though she expected, if any body knew, she must.
'You needn't look at me, Sally; I knows nothing about it,' leaning her long body over the table, and shaking her thin visage very significantly. 'Cutter, you know, don't go about much, and when he does hear any thing, he keeps it all to himself; a body has to ding their life out to get any thing out of him. We have fixed our old house, so that it is kind of snug like, so it ain't for us, no how; and who is a-goin' there, the massy only knows.'
'They say,' said a very comfortable-looking personage, with very round cheeks, and ample proportions—'they say, Mrs. Andrews, that your William is a-building that 'are place for himself; and that he's a coming back and goin' to be married to Hettie Brown, and they are to live there.'
'Now did I ever!' and the Widow Andrews turned up her eyes towards the ceiling—a common way with her—put her two hands together, and rested them on the tea-table. 'I don't see what people mean; I ain't heered no sich thing—have you, Mary?' appealing to her daughter, who sat beside her, and began to move about in her chair, and to smooth down the very stiff collar that encircled her neck. 'I don't see what people talk so for; I believe they do a-purpose;' and the widow began to slide up on her high notes, which at once aroused the energies of her daughter Mary.
'Oh, do Mother! don't mind if they do talk; it don't hurt any body; it don't make it so, you know;—does it, Mrs. Bloodgood?'
'Do la, no; and if it did, where's the harm?'
'Well,' said the fat lady, 'I guess you will all see: for every body knows the two young folks is dead in love, and they say he's made a power of money; only some say he won't have Hettie after all, jist because she's been out to service.'
Mrs. Bloodgood now saw that the harmony of her party was like to be destroyed, for the Widow Andrews was beginning to fan herself, and breathe short; so like a skilful commander, she brought all her forces to bear, in order to turn the attitude of affairs.
'Now, Aunt Peggy!' addressing the fat woman, 'do, la—I wouldn't talk so. Folks say a great many things they don't know any thing about. 'William is a brave boy; and if he's got ahead in the world, I'm glad on it; but who he will marry, or when he will marry, I guess there ain't any body that knows. Don't you say so, Mrs. Andrews? But, do, la! Here I've been a talking, and your tea is clean out; let me give you another cup; and, Aunt Peggy, won't you hand round that plate of cake? and won't you all help yourselves? and them baked pears, they are fresh and nice; I did them up this very morning—but may be some of you would like the preserves? Sally Cutter, you just hand the Widow Andrews that saucer of preserves.'
The tea, and the cake, and the preserves, now demanded general and particular notice; and between eating and drinking, and praising the good things, and asking for receipts, a very delightful state of confusion and loud talking about all manner of things, showed how successful was Aunt Sally's effort to maintain the peace.
Nor was Aunt Sally Bloodgood's the only tea-circle that was disturbed by this unaccountable affair. It was a great marvel, and the poor builder actually lost the good-will of more than one of the tea-drinking old ladies; but he did not seem to mind it, for he went on in a quiet way to finish the thing. And when he had done that, he locked the door, put the key in his pocket, shut the little gate, and went to work at another job.
CHAPTER XIV.
Mary Oakum was in personal appearance a lovely young creature, and an equally lovely spirit breathed forth in every word, sparkled from every look, and shone forth embodied in her whole conduct. She had the same black hair, the same flashing, deep-set hazel eye, the same laughing mouth—she was a beautiful miniature of Sam, only replacing his nut-brown complexion with a pure red and white. Mary was now seventeen, not tall of her age, but gracefully formed, and very feminine.
Susan, the youngest sister, was in a different style; for her hair was light, and her eyes blue, and her complexion, though fair, without color. Although two years younger, she was nearly as tall as her sister, with a serious cast of countenance that made her appear at times of an equal age.
The parents and children still occupied the little house on the shore; it was a very small, poor building, but they had kept patching it up the best they could; and being very happy among themselves, they thought not of its imperfections with any feelings of repining or discontent.
Sam was the delight of them all; parents and sisters hung upon him with an ardor of attachment, looked up to him with a feeling of dependence, confidence, and joy, which made him ever the light of their humble home when present with them, and drew their hearts after him with almost painful interest when absent.
He still wore his sailor's rig; was very neat in his dress; never appearing among business men or at his house, in the same garb in which he stood at the helm. How anxiously would his sisters watch for the first glimpse of his white sail in the distance! and how elastic were their steps, as they bounded from the house to meet him, as soon as they descried their neat, trim sailor-boy, as they called him, turning the angle in the shore near their house.
The day of his return had come, and Mrs. Oakum and Susan were busily employed clearing away the relics of the early meal, and putting, if possible, a brighter polish on every thing, when Mary came into the room, arrayed in her very best, and in one hand she held a small green bag, and in the other her sun-bonnet.
'Why, sister, whither away so early? Your new dress on too, your hair arranged so neatly, and your best shoes and all. Where are you going to make a call so early?'
'Oh, no call, sister dear! I am only going to the store. You know I lost my thimble the other evening, and I thought I would get another before Sam comes; he might want me to do something, and I should be sorry to say I had no thimble.'
A deep blush spread all over Mary's white neck, and temples, and forehead; the rich rose of her cheeks seemed, of an instant, to have sent its crimson hue in all directions. Had Mary equivocated? Not in the least; she had never learned that art. Was not the errand a lawful one? Certainly it was; she told the truth in all its simplicity. She wanted a thimble, and was going for that, and with no other motive whatever.
It was simply a flash of truth that crossed her mind—it was elicited by the remark of her sister in reference to her dress. Susan meant nothing in particular; nor had Mary, until then, an idea that she meant any thing in particular by what she had done.
We must look into things a little, however, while Mary is on her way to the store; for she smiled, slipped on her bonnet, and was off.
Mary was but a few years since a laughing, little romping girl, and she had grown up in great intimacy with a very staid and rather good-looking boy. She had sat on his lap, walked with him by the shore hand in hand, looking for pretty stones and shells; played hide-and-seek with him, in company with her brother and sister, among the rocks by moonlight, and even kissed him just as she did Sam, and thought no harm of it. She has, to be sure, long since, eschewed all such things, and stands now upon her womanly dignity. But this boy, although grown up to manhood, has not grown out of her interest. When the playfulness of childhood passed away, as by right it should, other feelings began to take its place. A deep respect for his fine character, which shone brighter and brighter as he grew up; an admiration of his manly appearance; a feeling of gratitude for the kind interest he took in her brother; a desire to do whatever she heard him say he liked; in fine, to assimilate her views and feelings, her tastes and pleasures, to his, was the unconscious desire of her heart.
But did any body know this? Not a human being. A mother's searching eye may possibly at times have discerned a glimmering of the truth; but if so, she had kept it to herself.
Did Mary know this? No, not as the truth itself must say she did; it was a secret, within what she could see of her little heart, into which no human eye had yet pried; but there it was. It did sometimes betray itself a little—a very little: that blush which seemed to come without a cause, which sent her off so quickly from observation, was just a token that she was a little conscious—only a little—how the matter stood.
And does he love her? If he does not, he ought to; for, let him look the world over, he cannot find a purer, lovelier object to meet his earthly happiness upon; he cannot find a soul that burns with an intenser ardor towards each friend her bosom cherishes; he cannot find a heart that, glowing with the purest earthly love, holds all its rich and priceless treasures for himself alone, like her's.
But we must stop, for she has reached the store, and quietly walks up to the side of the counter; passes a pleasant word with the few smiling customers who are there before her, and receives a salutation from Edward, who, busily attending upon those immediately before him, was using his hand and his tongue with great skill and rapidity.
'Good morning, Mary, are all well at home to-day?' said James, stepping from his place, and standing before her.
Mary looked up in surprise, for she had not yet glanced her eye to see whether the graver senior partner was at his desk.
'All well—very well, I thank you.' His address, and the reply, were delivered in a low tone, and he was leaning over the counter when he spoke.
'Any demands to-day?'
'Nothing but a thimble;' and she smiled and held up her hand, preparing to take off her glove. James immediately produced a little case, and placed it before her, but she shook her head—
'These are silver—a common kind will answer me.' Another case was brought, and James leaned over again, and began to select what, in his judgment, should be about the size; but somehow he picked out of the silver case alone.
'Just try this, Mary; none of those seem to fit you well;' and he gently took the little hand, and placed the thimble on the taper finger.
'You will hardly do better than to keep that.'
'But it is silver, and I cannot afford to lose it; I am for ever losing them.'
'You may be more fortunate with this, for it is a present.'
'Oh—thank you—thank you; it is a beautiful thimble. I shall be very choice of it.'
'Because it is silver?' and James looked at her with rather a meaning glance.
'Oh, no, not altogether; to be sure I should be sorry to lose this, because—because it is more valuable,'—and seeing James beginning to color—'it is not only silver, but it is a keepsake.'
All this passed in a tone that could not be heard amidst the din which Edward and his customers kept up.
'I have news to tell you, likewise, and was on the point of walking to your house to let you know that the owner of that building near you, and about which there has been so much curiosity, is expected to arrive to-day.'
'Then you have known who was the owner?'
'I suppose I may as well confess it.'
'And never told us?'
'You never asked me. The family I have long known; I esteem them highly, and I think you will be much pleased with them, especially with the eldest daughter.'
Mary was silent; she wished to ask several questions, but that eldest daughter—somehow the words struck a chill to her heart; she was all at once very thoughtful.
'Your brother and I are anxious to have things arranged before they get here, and Sam particularly wishes that his father and all of you should be there when they arrive, and I think,' said James, 'as you are to be such near neighbors, it would be well to show them all kindness.'
'Oh, by all means; certainly, we will do every thing we can to welcome them, as they are friends of yours; but—'
'But what, Mary?'
'Oh, you cannot be sure that they will wish to be very intimate with us, our circumstances will be so different.'
'They are a family, Mary, that do not regard such distinctions. You will love them—I know you will. I hope to enjoy their society much, and I am sure you will too.'
'I will be there, as soon as I can, with the key; and if you are all willing, we will go to work, and arrange things a little for them.'
'Oh, certainly; we will go with pleasure. Good morning.'
James accompanied her to the door.
'In an hour or so, I will be at your house. Good morning.'
'And I suppose he thinks the thimble will be a bribe to induce me to be very polite to that eldest daughter; but he need not fear. I shall do every thing I can to make it pleasant. The thimble I shall return when I have an opportunity, and shall tell him that Mary Oakum could be kind to his friends without—'
She could not say any more, and this she did not say—she only thought it; and then she began to be very much ashamed that she had even thought it. But there was a tumult in poor Mary's heart: at times she would hush it, but then again it would arise, in spite of herself.
James came after a while with the key, but not so soon as he expected. Mrs. Oakum and the girls accompanied him to the house; and as Mary resolved to put down all selfish feelings, and to be very pleasant and agreeable, every thing wore a cheerful aspect; for Mrs. Oakum and Susan were delighted with the idea of seeing and becoming acquainted with their new neighbors, especially as James gave such a favorable account of them. He had to take a little scolding from Susan, but it was done in such a good-natured way, that the harmony was not in the least disturbed by it.
As they had never gratified their curiosity while the house was building, as many had, it was all new to them; great was the admiration expressed at the neatness, taste, and convenience of all its parts; the rooms were so pleasant, and the view so charming.
'And what a sweet place this is!' said Susan, as they entered one of the upper rooms; 'how gracefully those branches of the willow hang before the window, and how beautiful the water looks through them, and the church and the parsonage! It is the finest view from any part of the house, is it not, sister.'
'It is very beautiful,' said Mary; and she sighed.
'Now, sister dear, what was that for? You don't feel sad that we have no such place?'
'My dear sister, do you think I am covetous or envious?' And Susan threw her arms around her neck, and kissed off a tear which she supposed her suggestion had produced.
'Covetous, envious; no, indeed, dear Mary, forgive me, if what I said led to any such idea; but I don't think I ever heard you sigh before. Why was it, sister?'
'Oh, nothing. But we ought not to stay here, ought we, as there is so much to do?'
And down they went, and to work with good-will. Mrs. Oakum was in the kitchen, examining with an eye of one who knew well the comfort of conveniences there; every thing needed was close at hand: a well of water by the door, a shed for the wood, and such a beauty of a milk-room, it almost smelled of cream and butter; and from the kitchen you could look out upon such a love of a garden-spot, large enough to raise all that a moderate-sized family could possibly want; while opening into it and near the house was a neat little stable, of sufficient size for a cow and a horse, with their provender.
'Some one,' said Mrs. Oakum, 'has contrived all this who knows what is needful for the comfort of a family.'
James was very active, and showed great skill in distributing the several articles into the different apartments.
'I guess,' said Susan, smiling archly, 'that one, who seems to know so well where things belong, must have had something to do in getting them: who knows,' said she, winking to Mary, 'but this house is for himself after all; and that eldest daughter he talks so much about is to be——. Dear sister, I know you are not well, you are so pale; you have worked too hard.'
'I am afraid she has,' said James, looking with much anxiety.
'Oh, not at all; I am very well;—but these things, had we not better be putting them in their places?'
'These must be all for one room; they are, you see, painted white and tipped with green,—the chairs, and the table, and washstand, they must be for that little upper room. Don't you think so Mary?' said Susan, catching up a chair.
'I think they would be suitable there,' said Mary.
'There they shall go then,' said James: and soon the little room was furnished.
'Oh, is it not sweet?' said Susan. 'But mother is calling us to help her with the carpet,' replied Mary, and down they went. Here, however, was a difficulty; the carpet was in a roll, and there would be no time to cut it and sew it together.
'It would take us a whole day,' said Susan, 'do our best.'
Mrs. Oakum, however, proposed that she should cut the breadths, and lay them down, and some other day they would come and assist the family in sewing it together; so Mary took out her scissors, and soon the floor was covered; and as this was the best room, the furniture suitable was arranged in it, and to the girls it seemed a grand place.
'And now,' said Mrs. Oakum, 'the rooms seem to be all provided with their furniture, except the kitchen, and I don't see that there is any provision made for that. What will they do?' looking from one to the other. James smiled, blushed, and appeared confused, and was about to say something explanatory, when the door was opened, and Mr. Oakum entered, dressed in his Sunday suit; this he had put on at the request of the girls. He informed them that the sloop was in, and that Sam was on his way up.
Sam had no lack of kisses that day, and Mary even hung upon him more fondly than ever; and Sam thought he saw a tear glistening in her eye, but she wiped it away, and said—
'It was nothing.'
Ah, Mary! the world is full of such nothings; it is ever piercing the heart of such sensitive beings as yourself, and forcing out the drops that tell in mute but unmistaking language the aching within.
'So, Mr. Sam, you knew the secret all the time about the house?' said his youngest sister, coming up and hanging on him for a kiss.
'Oh, you know, Susan, secrets are troublesome to ladies; I did not wish to burden you, my dear.'
'Very generous it was in you. Oh, I wish I was strong enough to shake you;' but as she was not, she caught him round the neck, and kissed him.
'But come in, and see how well we have arranged things. Will they be here soon?'
Sam made no reply to Susan's last question, but followed her immediately into the house.
They were all soon collected in the parlor, expatiating on the beauty of the place, and were beginning to ask Sam a variety of questions, when James all at once left the room; and Sam, drawing from his pocket a packet neatly enveloped, his parents and sisters looked at him, expecting some new disclosure.
'My dear parents: I have practised a little deception upon you, for the first time in my life, which I hope you will pardon when you hear the nature of it. This house, which you have been arranging, does not belong to any stranger, as you have been led to think—it is all your own; and here, my dear father, is the deed which makes it and the ground around it your's for ever,' handing to his wonder-stricken parent the paper he had in his hand.
Mr. Oakum took the paper, but was so overcome with amazement, that he could say nothing; he looked at his wife, who, for a moment, sat with her hands clasped before her, her eyes strained in their intense gaze on her darling boy. She then sprang to clasp him in her arms, but the girls were before her, and were hanging around his neck, and fairly smothering him with their fond embrace. Sam put out his arms to receive his mother, and she fell upon his neck, and burst into tears.
'Oh, Sam! my dear Sam! may God bless you for ever and ever.'
His father, overcome by the rush of his own excited feelings and the outburst of affection on the part of the mother and sisters, dropped the paper, and leaning on his hands, could only shed tears of joy. It was not the beautiful gift—valuable as it was—nor the sudden flow of prosperity, that raised them at once from a poor and decayed tenement to a dwelling equal in respectability to the best in the place; thoughts far richer to a parent's heart were thrilling his bosom, and working up his feelings into intense and overpowering emotion. To find in the man who stood before him in his strength and ardor, the same kind, loving, feeling fondness that the boy had manifested—in fine, to know that prosperity and manhood had not changed his boy—it was enough: earth had no better good, heaven could give no richer earthly solace. And could that son have heard the thoughts which rose in gushing ardor to the throne on high, and could his vision but have burst the veil which hides that secret place where thoughts are registered, he would have felt that a recompense already had been treasured for him beyond the reach of venture or decay.
Sam had made but little calculation as to the effect of this surprise, either on his parents or himself. He had often, in boyish days, even when all around was dark and forbidding, amused himself with visions of the future, of all that he might be and do, and in every fancy sketch, his mind portrayed for the comfort of his parents; the joy which, in some unexpected way, might be infused into their spirits, was ever the prominent figure in the scene. This object, now so happily accomplished, had been his aim for years: for this he had resisted his inward impulse to go abroad and visit distant climes, and seek a fortune more genial to his bounding spirit; steadily had he pursued his calling, and faithfully labored and stored away his earnings with almost a miser's care, to gratify this heaven-born, filial love, and in some hour of exquisite delight enjoy his long, long-treasured wish. And now that hour had come. He had opened the floodgates of happiness upon these dear objects of his affection, and was overpowered himself. He sat down beside his mother, and mingled his tears with her's.
But why has Mary left the scene? and why has she gone with such haste to that little upper room? and why does she clasp her hands, and raise her eye to heaven, and shed such tears as now overflow those long dark lids and bathe her lovely cheek? Another token these of that deep feeling which her secret heart so long has nourished; that room is pleasant now, for hither she has come, in this moment of heart-felt bliss, to pour out her heaving thoughts in gratitude to God; and there she hopes, in days and years to come, to send up the incense so pleasing unto Him who loves a contrite heart.
Mary had much to think of; no longer could she hide from herself the fact that she loved James Montjoy; and every word which he had said, and which had caused her so much inward pain, was now a source of new and heart-felt joy, and it was impossible for her to misunderstand those allusions which so plainly pointed to herself; and yet she would say, 'He was only in jest; he knew it must all come out—he meant nothing by it, nothing particular.' Thus ruminating, and with a happy heart, she passed lightly down the little staircase and along the hall, as James was returning from a stroll in the garden, to which, out of delicacy for the feelings of the family, he had retired, just as Sam was about to make the disclosure.
He put out his hand to congratulate her upon the happy surprise; overcome with the scene she had just passed through, and the rush of feelings at the sight of him, she extended her hand, and burst into tears.
As James entered the parlor with Mary, the scene had to be in some measure renewed; for he was so identified with all the prosperity they had enjoyed, that a sight of him under present circumstances but added to the full tide of feeling.
'Oh,' said Mrs. Oakum, 'this has been all your doing.'
'By no means, my dear madam; Sam alone has devised it, and his own honest earnings have paid the cost.'
'Yes, I have no doubt of that, and Heaven's blessing he will have for it; but you first took him by the hand and encouraged him, and—'
'Oh, Mrs. Oakum, we will not go so far back now; and besides, I could no more have done without Sam than he felt he could do without me; but we must clear up our faces and prepare for company, for this matter will fly like the wind when it gets abroad, and you will have the whole town here to see you.'
Commodore Trysail was one of those specimens of humanity with which we occasionally meet, where a rough exterior and a blunt manner conceal a warm and tender heart. In all matters of business he was prompt, correct, and very decided; a little tenacious of authority when he saw any disposition to slight his orders, but allowing great latitude whenever he knew there was a desire to please and obey him.
Old Peter, who had accompanied the family of Major Morris to their new residence, was quite a favorite with the Commodore; and as the two families were but a short distance apart, with the exception that Peter had his hammock slung in one of the Major's out-buildings—he was as much at home at one house as the other.
It was one part of Peter's business to watch the coming in of the mail, and see that the letters and papers for either family were distributed in the quickest possible time; also to attend upon the departure and arrival of the sloop, as there was always something to go or come by that conveyance, it being the only regular one to and from the city. This part of Peter's duty he performed with special pleasure; Sam had ever been a favorite of his, and he never tired of telling over what he knew of him when a boy, and extolling his fine appearance, his activity and his correct conduct in all things, now that he had grown to be a man.
Between the Commodore and Peter Sam was often a subject of conversation, until all that Peter knew of his favorite had been many times repeated.
On this day, so distinguished in the life of his hero, Peter not only brought along from the boat quite a number of parcels, but he had also a weighty cargo of news, which he had gathered on his way back. After giving Lady Morris, as he always styled her, the first of the tidings, he hastened to the Commodore's as fast as his crutches would carry him.
It was a warm afternoon, and the Commodore was seated in his veranda on the shady side of the house, enjoying the cooling view of the expanse of water spread out before him, and the gentle breeze that scarce moved the long branches of the willow that hung above and around him, when he heard the well-known sound of the crutches stumping along the hard gravel path at double quick time. Peter was so much out of breath, and so excited with what he had to tell, that after he had reached the stoop and taken off his hat, and smoothed down his queue and made several obeisances, he could only stammer out,
'Your honor—'
The Commodore looked at him with no little surprise, for the preparation Peter had made betokened quite a long yarn.
'A warm day, Peter.'
'Very, your honor;' and Peter fumbled away at his queue, and twisted his quid to all sides of his mouth.
'You are out of breath, Peter; what is the haste to-day? any news stirring?'
'Great news, your honor, great news.'
'Is war declared, or has the comet lost its tail? let me hear; out with it, Peter.'
'No war, your honor, God forbid: and I guess the comet is whizzing away yet, though we can't see him by daylight; but your honor knows that picture of a house up along the bank there—'
'Ay, ay—what, the house that has no owner? and a pretty box it is; what of it, Peter?'
'But it has got an owner, and who does your honor think it is? Our Captain Sam; he's built it 'spressly for his father and mother, God bless him! and he's rigged it all up for 'em, and he's put 'em in it this blessed day, and there they are, as happy as your honor was in a tight, new ship. And now he says, "Good-by to the old sloop, Peter; I've got the old folks snug and happy, and now I am going to steer my way on the broad ocean, just as you have always been wishing me to do." That's just what he said, your honor. God bless him.'
The Commodore was a match for Peter with the tobacco any day, and whenever a little excited, was sure to clap his finger and thumb into his vest pocket, where there was generally a supply ready cut up of suitable length. As Peter concluded his tale, the Commodore began to fumble for a charge.
'Peter, I'm out; hand me that bit of yarn you are cutting from.'
'Bless your honor, not this; no, no;' and taking out a package that had filled the whole capacity of his jacket pocket, 'here is some, your honor, the boys have put up for me to-day (Peter had the run of the store free), bless their kind hearts. It's bran new, your honor; take it all, and welcome.'
Having untied the roll, cut off a liberal allowance, and given two or three squeezes to the delicious morsel,
'Do you say, Peter, that he has built that handsome place for his father and mother, and furnished it, and given it to them out-and-out?'
'It's God's truth, your honor.'
'Well, Peter, all I can say is, that he has got more of a sailor's heart in him than I thought he had; and do you think that is the reason why he has been shoaling along shore here, when we have all been wondering why such a smart young fellow didn't try to climb a little higher in the world?'
'Nothing else, as sure as that water is runnin' to the ocean. I always tell'd your honor, Capt. Sam would come out bright; he wasn't never made for a land lubber, your honor: his heart is too big, too big for that, I always knowed it was.'
'And I suppose the old folks are very happy. Did they know of it before?'
'Never, your honor, till this blessed day; and when I com'd along by there, Miss Mary came runnin' out; 'Come in, Peter, come in and see our new house;' and so in I goes, and sich a sight your honor never see; there was the mother with the tears a runnin', and the father lookin' as if he had been standin' eight-and-forty hours facing a nor'wester, and the galls and all hold on me, and showing me every thing, and making me eat and drink; it's the happiest family, your honor, I believe there is at this moment on the breathin' earth; I was no better than a baby myself, your honor.'
'Peter, do you go this minute, do you hear?'—Peter had like not to have heard, for he was on his way going somewhere, he knew not exactly for what—'and tell Harry to rig up the carriage, and—do you hear, Peter?'
'Ay, ay, sir.' Peter was hardly within hailing distance.
'Tell Mrs. Morris that I shall call for her.'
'Ay, ay, sir.'
'Bless my soul! he's a fine fellow.' The Commodore was now walking up and down very fast: 'Something must be done for him; he must let that old sloop go to the ——;' the Commodore was not always particular where he sent things, so that they were out of his way.
There are green spots in this world of ours, which tempt us to forget that it is a fallen world, and point us, in their exhibition of true enjoyment, to what it might have been, and what it may yet be. There are pleasures that seem so unalloyed by selfish, earthly dross, we almost feel the breath of heaven fanning our spirits while we mingle in them.
Such was the bright and pleasant scene that Sam had lighted up within that circle of domestic love, his home.
Nor was there any lack of friends that day to greet them kindly, or to sympathize in their joy. The tidings soon spread, as James said they would, and neighbor after neighbor came dropping in, some, no doubt, to gratify their curiosity, but many, many more to give utterance to the joy they really felt.
It was about the middle of the afternoon when the equipage of Commodore Trysail drove up. The old gentleman was a sailor, and not very particular when dealing with men, at least not always so, to polish either his language or his manners; but in the company of ladies he never forgot the respect due to them; he was mild and courteous, no matter how humble the individual or the circle to which he was introduced. Mrs. Morris was no stranger to the family; she had often visited them in their lonely home, and by her affable and kind manners had won their hearts.
No wonder, then, that the girls ran with such haste to welcome her, and conducted her into their new abode with feelings, if not of pride, at least of heart-felt pleasure. She kissed them as they met her at the door.
'I wish you joy, my dear good girls, with all my heart. Mrs. Oakum, I congratulate you on your entrance into such a pretty home; it is a sweet place; but it must be doubly sweet and precious to you under all the circumstances.'
Mrs. Oakum could not reply; tears alone responded to the kind greeting.
'But where is that noble fellow, Sam? I must call him so yet—where is he?'
'He has run away. Do you think, Mrs. Morris,' said Mary, 'he found the neighbors began to come in, and off he went.'
'Do you tell him for me, he's a pretty fellow; and that I shall expect a visit from him expressly in return for this.'
The Commodore had been detained at the door a moment, in offering his whole-soul congratulations to Sam's father. As he entered the room, Mrs. Morris formally introduced him to the mother and sisters. Bowing very low to Mrs. Oakum,
'Madam, I do not wonder that your feelings are excited; he is a noble boy, and you have every reason to be proud of him.'
'He has ever been a dear, good child, sir.'
'Yes; I have no doubt of that, madam; and I suspect he has had a dear, good mother. Ah! it is these mothers that make men what they ought to be. I had a dear, good mother once. I never shall forget her; she taught me a great many good things, when she used to lean over me in my bed. What a different man I should have been had I minded her; but, thank God, I hope I have not forgotten them all.'
A tear might have been seen bedewing an eye that had met the shock of battle, and the rush of the tempest, without a twinkle.
'But, bless my soul! are these two cherubs your daughters?—a kiss, girls; a kiss.'
There was no affectation in their honest hearts, and they received a hearty salutation without blushing any more than might have been expected.
'Do you think, Commodore,' said Mrs. Morris, 'our hero has betaken himself away!'
'The rogue! I wanted to have given him a good sailor's squeeze; and to tell him how happy I am to find that he has a true sailor's heart. But I see how it is; he had rather do a good deed than be praised for it. Will you tell him for me, madam,' turning to Mrs. Oakum, 'that I should be pleased to see him at my house as early to-morrow morning as his engagements will permit? Again, allow me, madam, to wish you much happiness in your new abode, and many, many years to enjoy it in.'
The Commodore bowed to the whole circle, and offering his arm to Mrs. Morris, led her to the carriage.
CHAPTER XV.
'Mr. Oakum, good morning to you; you will excuse me for omitting your title; although, if you must have it, I should prefer the one which your old friend Peter has adopted, and call you Captain Sam. I am glad to see you, sir; walk in.'
All this was said at the door of the Commodore's office, and while he was shaking the hand of the young man with great cordiality. This office was a small addition to his handsome mansion, jutting out from one end, and into which was an entrance externally and independent of the passage in the main building.
Sam had made the call at the office door, and was met with the greeting as stated above.
There was a great disparity in their personal appearance, and yet either of them would have been handsome models to represent their different ages and standing in society. The Commodore's large, full, portly form, ruddy face, dark-gray eyes and powdered hair, would well represent the retired commander of sixty-five: while the trim and agile frame, the sun-burnt face, the raven locks, the sparkling, hazel, deep-set and deeply-shaded eye, would have answered well the idea of a young adventurer, ready to commence the untried dangers of the deep. Sam was decidedly a handsome fellow; and whether his sisters had been fixing him out that morning, I cannot say, but he was dressed with much care; too much, some might think, for his calling. It was, however, of the true sailor fashion; and if, when engaged in his work, he was a whole man, we can leave such matters to his fancy.
'You will excuse me, Mr. Oakum, for requesting you to call upon me, or for the inquiries I may put to you; as I have a plan in view, which I should think would be more congenial to a young man of your abilities, than dodging back and forth in that little sloop.'
'I am very happy, sir, to wait upon you, and will very thankfully listen to any views you may please to communicate.'
'First, then, I wish you to state what are your plans for the future. I have heard through Peter—I give you my authority—that you design to leave your present business. If you have no objections, my young friend, make a clean breast to me; I want to hear all about you.'
Sam smiled. 'Why, sir, to tell you the truth, I am really tired, as you say, of "dodging about in the sloop;" but hitherto duty has kept me at the helm very much against my inclination.'
'Glad to hear you say so. Duty, sir, is a glorious master, although sometimes he drives us sadly against our wills. Then you have resolved to start upon a new course?'
'I have, sir.'
'But the sea will be a new business for you. Your cruise along shore cannot have fitted you for what you will meet with there.'
'I have anticipated that, sir; and have already made three short voyages.'
Sam saw that the Commodore appeared much pleased with this information.
'Since you have so kindly requested me, sir, to tell you my past doings and present plans, I will presume upon the permission, and do so.'
'That is just what I wish, sir.'
'The sloop, which seems of late to have been a trouble to many of my good friends, besides the kind-hearted old Peter (Major Morris had not been backward to drop some broad hints in reference to it), was once the object of my highest ambition; but like many objects when attained, seemed only as a stepping-stone to something after which my imagination panted, and for which, I must confess, I have been at times too restless. But an end I had in view, and which I saw I could accomplish by retaining my situation in the sloop, has enabled me to continue at my post, although I must say against my fancy.'
'Yes, yes; and let me tell you, my young friend, it was a noble end, and you will be a gainer, a great gainer by it in the long-run; but'—seeing that Sam was blushing very much, and apparently getting into a state of confusion—'pardon me for interrupting you; please go on, and tell me the whole story.'
'Intending, so soon as that object was accomplished, to launch forth and push my way upon the ocean, I embraced an opportunity afforded me, during a season of the year when our navigation is obstructed, to make a short voyage. Three several times I have been, and the last was of peculiar advantage to me; for, experiencing a hurricane just after we left Havana, the captain and chief mate were washed overboard by a heavy sea that swept our decks, and the second mate did not know enough to keep the reckoning; so at the request of all hands, I took charge of the brig, and, although we encountered two severe gales, brought her safely into port.'
The Commodore rose, and walking across the room, turned, and fixed his keen eye full on Sam.
'You ought to have been handsomely rewarded for that, sir. Was no notice taken of it by the owners or the under writers?'
'Oh, yes, sir'—and Sam drew forth a fine gold watch—'this is their token, but I should have preferred the offer of the brig; she was a fine vessel, but I suppose they had friends who laid a stronger claim than I could.'
'Thus, you have no hesitation as to your ability to take sole command of a vessel to any quarter of the world?'
'I have not, sir.'
'And you are willing to do so?'
'I am very anxious to do so, sir, if I can find any owners willing to trust me.'
The Commodore resumed his seat.
'Mr. Oakum, you must be well aware that our country is at present in a critical situation. War is inevitable. I think so—I am confident of it. The danger, then, in commercial navigation, will be of a very serious nature. I am, as you know, somewhat engaged in the trade to China; two of my vessels are now on the way there; one of these will not return for some time, and the other is to receive a cargo in the usual manner, and will probably be back a little short of one year; but I fear, that before six months come round, we shall be at war. I must make what preparation I can to secure my personal interest against an evil which I foresee. My design is to hasten the return of one of my ships with her cargo, by all possible means. You know that I have just completed a beautiful schooner; she will sail like a witch. I have resolved to send her express to China, and I now offer you the command of her.'
Sam arose, and was about to thank the Commodore for the generous offer.
'Please be seated, Mr. Oakum, you have not heard the end of the story yet. I have business of importance to be attended to in China, and the captain of the ship I design to order back must remain there, and you, sir, will take his place. On your arrival out, you will find yourself master of as fine a ship as swims the ocean.'
Sam could contain himself no longer; he arose from his seat.
'Commodore Trysail, I know not how to express the deep sense I feel of obligation to you—it is the happiest moment of my life, sir.'
The Commodore grasped the hand of the young and ardent sailor, and was delighted to see the flash of joy and pride that sparkled forth from his bright eye.
'You may thank yourself, Mr. Oakum, and the manly efforts you have made to improve your advantages.'
Just then the office door was gently opened, and a shaggy head appeared, nodding very significantly, but saying nothing.
'Well, Peter, any thing new stirring?'
'Why, I thought your honor would be pleased to know that the Major had arrived, and the young lady.'
'What, has Major Morris returned, and Susie with him? that is good news.'
Peter's head was immediately withdrawn, and he was heard stumping it away at a rapid rate.
'It will be no child's play, Mr. Oakum, as you will find, bringing that vessel home; for I am determined, war or no war, that you must get her into port at all hazards, and if I did not think that you would prove a man in the hour of extremity, depend upon it, sir, I should never confide such a trust to you. The risk of loss I expect to run; and after you have done your best, should you fall into the enemies' hands, you will not be in the least to blame. The management of every thing in reference to this matter I leave entirely to yourself. My schooner is ready for you. She is under your command; select your own crew, and hands enough to make a double crew for the ship on her return.'
CHAPTER XVI.
Mr. George Rutherford, as I have hinted in a former chapter, was becoming entangled in his pecuniary circumstances. He had no fears as yet that he should not be able to pay every obligation, and have a competency left; but his sensitive spirit was keenly alive to that kind of humiliating deference which is always more or less demanded and received by those who, more calculating in their habits, keep their capital at command, and are enabled to exchange their ready money for the borrower's security.
But whatever annoyance or inward torment he suffered was carefully concealed within his own breast; he could not bear to throw a shade over the bright and joyous heart of his wife.
It was, however, impossible that one who loved with such entire devotedness, should not perceive when some dark and troublous cloud lay upon the object of her affection. Often would she come to him as he sat musing, at the close of day, and ask—
'What is it, George! does anything trouble you? these wrinkles are truly beginning to be permanent. Do tell me, and let me share it with you.'
And then he would smile, and kiss the fair hand, and say—
'Nothing, dear Mary; nothing worth telling; there are a thousand little vexations and cares in life, you know, which help to make the marks upon us, I suppose, and thus show that they have been. Nothing, dear Mary.'
But by degrees accumulated strokes began to bear most seriously upon him; his property melted away by little and little; at one time an unwise act of friendship, at another an unsuccessful negotiation in trade, or may be, a sharper's trick; there seemed to be always some cause at work to drive away his means.
He had become largely implicated in establishing a store near to the property he owned in the barrens, in order to afford an opposition to Mr. Cross, hoping thereby to alleviate the condition of the poor laborers; but the person who managed the business proved to be no match for the wily Cross, and it only served to excite his adversary to bitter revenge.
He had, also, become involved more seriously than he as yet had any idea of himself, with a Company that were engaged in working a quarry.
The prospects held out to him were very flattering, as such things usually are when presented by interested and designing persons; but as each year passed by with no profit realized, and a fresh demand for money to carry on their operations, too confiding to suspect those whose bad management ought to have awakened his doubts, he suffered his purse to be drained, and, worse than all, suffered his name and credit to be used.
Manfully had he borne up under all his reverses, shrinking from no loss nor responsibility, which, however unwisely brought upon himself, was still his own act, and, therefore, sacred as his honor.
At length a storm, he saw, was rising fast, and spreading its dark and gloomy mantle over him. He could not avert its fury; but with fortitude, with a firm determination to maintain his integrity, he awaited the catastrophe.
The first blow which came with much severity was in the failure of Bolton, the individual whom he had established in trade near the barrens. Many were involved in that calamity, and he was compelled, in order to meet the demands which would be made upon him in consequence, to use all his means and his utmost ingenuity to maintain his credit, now become of vital importance to him. Troubles, at times, overtake us like the tiding-bearers to the Patriarch of old; scarce has one sad tale been uttered, when another is ready to begin.
Mr. Rutherford had passed a sleepless night; the long hours had been spent in running over the sad circuit of his misfortunes, and in endeavoring to extricate himself from the tangled maze in which he was involved. His wife would most willingly have been the partner of his cares, and spent the day and night in labor, either of body or of mind. But no—he must not, he cannot disturb the quiet of her bosom; he will yet, he fondly hopes, weather it through, and she shall never know the struggle his spirit has borne. And thus it would have been, and thus his proud and tender heart would have ached in secret, and cloistered all its trials, until it broke beneath the accumulated load; but a kind Providence was watching around his sleepless bed, and knew all that he could bear, and was preparing the way that would, in spite of himself, break open his secret sorrows, and compel him to unbosom himself to her whose gentle spirit would pour out its sweet consolations into his troubled heart, brace up his worn-out feelings, and lay them calmly to rest amid the soothings of love; earthly, it may be, but a bright emblem of that in which the weary soul will sweetly repose when the trials and toils of life are over.
The watching and busy thoughts of the night past were too visible the next morning to escape the eye of love; and as his Mary entered the room where he was seated, waiting for their early meal, she could not help saying to him,
'You are sick, dear George; I know you are.'
Before he could reply there was a knock at the door, and Mr. Rutherford was summoned into an adjoining apartment.
The gentleman expressed his regret for the business upon which he had come; he handed to Mr. Rutherford a paper, which proved to be an attachment upon his beautiful homestead, and the land connected with it.
'You have, no doubt, heard, sir, that the Quarry Company has gone to pieces; and as you appear to be the only responsible one among them, the person named in that paper, and to whom they are largely indebted, feels compelled to take this step, although very reluctantly.'
This explanation was sufficient; Mr. Rutherford perceived the dilemma to which things had at length come. His visitor, having no further business, withdrew; and as he closed the door upon him, he retired again by himself, and was seated by a table with the paper in his hand, when his wife entered the room, and closed the door.
'My dear George, you must let me know what is the matter. You cannot hide from me, that there is some great trouble upon you. Tell me, my dear husband, tell me what it is'—and she threw herself upon her knees before him, and clasping her arms about him, looked up with intense interest beaming from her dark hazel eyes.
'We are ruined, Mary! my property, the inheritance of my ancestors, is all, I fear, to be swept away from me.'
'And you have known this, George, a long time, and have been bearing the trouble all alone in your own breast. Why have you done this, and not let me be a sharer of your sufferings?'
'Oh, Mary, how could I do it? It was out of your power to stop the torrent I have been contending against, and I could not bear to disturb your quiet.'
'My dear George, how little do you understand of a woman's love; bright and pleasant things do not always satisfy its warm desire. I had rather suffer with you, and for you, my dear husband, the sharpest pangs, and feel the direst vicissitudes of life, if I could only prove to you, how much dearer to me is your love than all things else on earth.'
As she said this her eyes were filled with tears, and told so truly with the words she had just uttered, all the meaning of her soul, that he clasped her to his bosom.
'My love, my life, my heart's richest treasure! may God bless you for all the comfort you have been to me, and for all you are now.'
Sorrow, thou child of sin, strong and terrible as is thy power, and crushing as is the weight of thy hand when pressed on no worms of the dust, yet know thou, there is an antidote, a precious gift of Heaven, when by man's sin all blessings which his God had given were justly forfeited—this antidote is love; when fixed on God, it bows the spirit into childlike confidence, clinging closer to the heavenly hand the heavier the blow. And when two kindred souls on earth have merged their hopes, their fears, their interests, their warm desires, their whole hearts' sympathies in one strong true embrace, there is so much of heaven's own happiness in it, that spite of all the anguish under which at times they bow, this sweet and subtile charmer steals within, spreads a calm upon the bosom of the waters, hushes all to peace, and bids them still be happy.
And now she sits beside him, and he tells her all his strange trials, and how dark his prospects are.
'It must all go, Mary.'
'Well, my dear husband, let it all go; your own sweet spirit is unstained by one wrong or mean act; you have never withheld a righteous due; you have never ground the face of the poor; you have never triumphed over those beneath you; you have rather tried to raise them to your own level: and now let poverty come, it cannot sink our spirits, so long as there is no blot on your fair fame, and no stain on your conscience.'
Rutherford was manly in his feelings, but he could not repress his starting tears. His lovely wife, without a sigh, had let go all that wealth could hold out to her, and only thought of her husband's virtues.
'Yes, Mary, that is true. I believe I can truly say with Job: "If I have withheld the poor from their desire, or have caused the eyes of the widow to fail, or have eaten my morsel myself alone, and the fatherless have not eaten thereof: if I have seen any perish for want of clothing, or any poor without covering, then let my arm fall from my shoulder-blade, and mine arm be broken from the bone."'
'I know it, my dear husband, I know it; and as you have acted in the fear of God, his strength will be our refuge.'