CHAPTER XV.
NEWS FROM NEW ZEALAND.
THE little cottage in Huntington took on a new coat of white while Kit was seeing the world and earning money beyond the sea. All the weak spots were mended, the yard was put in order, the trees trimmed, and in the rear a neat garden was made, where, toward the end of the afternoons, Mrs. Silburn and Vieve went out in sunbonnets and pulled weeds and did such other work as women’s hands were able to perform. It was a very different looking place from the dingy spot it had become a year before under the shock of its owner’s disappearance. And better than all, the last cent of indebtedness upon it had been paid off.
“I am glad you are able to do this, Mrs. Silburn; glad on your own account,” the lawyer said when she made the last payment. “I hardly expected it, with the trouble you have had. I was prepared to give you as much time as you wanted in paying this up.”
“Oh, you have been very good, Mr. Clarkson,” Mrs. Silburn answered. “For a time I thought I should have to ask you for an extension. But I did not know then what a good boy I had. Yes, I knew it of course; but I did not know that he would be able to do so much for me so soon.”
“Yes, you have a good boy, and no mistake,” the lawyer assented. “But you can hardly call him a boy any more. When do you expect him home again?”
“In three or four weeks, now, I hope. And you know we have a little hope of seeing some one else, too. It is a faint chance; but if the man I told you of in the New Zealand hospital should prove to be my husband, we want to have everything in order for him when he returns. That is the reason Kit was so anxious to have the house painted; and that is why I have struggled to have all the debts paid. We are looking every day for a letter from the consul in New Zealand.”
It was putting it very mildly to say that they were “looking” for a letter from the consul. They were so eager for it that they did not let a single mail arrive without going to the little post-office on the hill. Not only that, but they had matters arranged so that as Vieve came down the hill from the office, she could let her mother know in advance of her arrival whether she had got any letters. Their front windows looked across to the diagonal road that went up past the post-office; and Vieve was to wave the letter, if she got one, as she came down the hill, so that her mother, sitting sewing by the window, would see it.
Vieve was cook and housekeeper, now that her mother was busy all day sewing, and she took pride in leaving everything in good order when she started for school. Not that the cooking was very hard work. They often said, laughingly, that Kit would give them both a good scolding if he should come home unexpectedly and see what they had for breakfast. A cup of coffee, a few slices of bread and butter, occasionally some eggs, or a handful of radishes from the garden, made their usual fare; and the other meals were equally light, though Mrs. Silburn insisted that every few days they should have a steak or some chops for health’s sake.
“It’s a sinful waste of money!” Vieve always declared. “We don’t need them half as much as we need the money. Remember you can’t bring a man home from New Zealand for nothing. Anyhow, it’s a shame for us to eat up the money that Kit works so hard for—and you sewing, sewing all the time. I’m going to find a way to earn a little money myself, as soon as I can. I don’t want to be the only one to make nothing.”
“Then who will take care of me?” Mrs. Silburn’s invariable answer was.
One morning she knew there was a letter by the way Vieve came running down the hill, even before it was waved in the air for her. And Vieve burst in flushed and breathless.
“I’m almost afraid to open it,” Mrs. Silburn said. “So much depends upon this letter, and it may crush all our hopes.”
“Not this letter!” Vieve laughed. “This is not from that consul man, this is from Kit; and his letters never crush anybody’s hopes.”
It was a letter telling of his safe arrival in Marseilles, and his night in Louis-Philippe’s cell in the Castle d’If, and his visit to Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde with Harry and their meeting with the distinguished stranger who proved to be a cardinal.
“A cardinal!” Vieve exclaimed; “just think of our Kit travelling about with a cardinal. He’ll be so proud when he gets home we won’t know what to say to him.”
“Indeed, I think any cardinal or anybody else ought to be proud to associate with a young man like Kit,” Mrs. Silburn hastened to answer. “I don’t know that I want him running about with cardinals, either. They’re papists, and the papists are all tricky. It would be just like them to try to make a Catholic of such a young man. That Louise Phillips, or whatever her name was, can consider herself very much honored, too, that Kit visited her cell.”
“Why, mother,” Vieve laughed, “Louis-Philippe was a man; a king, a prince, or something.”
“I don’t care,” Mrs. Silburn went on, “Kit’s just as good as any of them. Don’t bother, now, till I finish the letter. What do I care for their kings or cardinals when I have a letter from Kit?
“‘The cardinal gave me a letter to the Bishop of New Zealand,’ she continued to read from the letter, ‘and it may be of service to us there. But I hope you have heard from the consul before this. I almost wish I had asked you to send me a cable despatch telling me when you got a letter and what it said. But cabling is so expensive—about forty cents a word to Marseilles—that I shall have to wait in patience till I get home. That will be in about three weeks after you get this letter, I think; and I will be out to see you just as soon as I get my cargo disposed of.’
“I do hope we will hear from that consul before Kit gets back,” Mrs. Silburn said, after finishing the letter; and for the twentieth time she figured out, as well as she could, how long it ought to take a letter to go from London to New Zealand, and how long for the reply to come to America.
“Well,” she continued, “Kit will find things very much improved here when he comes home. I never saw the old place look so well. If only he could stay here longer to enjoy it! He works and works to keep a comfortable home for us, and then never can stay in it more than a few days at a time. But you must be off to school, Vieve; and don’t forget to put on your overshoes, the streets are so muddy. I don’t know how many times I have told you to go and buy a new pair, but you go on wearing those old things, full of holes. You’ll catch your death of cold.”
“I don’t need new ones, mother,” Vieve replied. “They don’t grow on the trees, you know, and all these things cost money. I’m not going to be spending all of Kit’s money for my clothes.”
“You foolish child, don’t you know that he always likes to buy things for you? He’d rather get new clothes for you than for himself.”
“I know it, mother,” Vieve answered. “He slipped some money into my hand last time he was home, you know, and told me to buy something for myself. But I’m not going to do it; I’d rather save it; you know what for.”
“You don’t want your father to come home and find that you’ve died of diphtheria, do you?” Mrs. Silburn asked. “Well, you must have your own way about it, I suppose. Stop at the butcher’s when you come home at noon, Vieve, and get a slice of ham—not a very thick slice. There are two or three eggs left, and that will do for our dinner.”
It was as well that Kit could not see the pinching little ways at home, or he would have worried over it. It was something new for the Silburn family to live in this way, for Kit’s father had always made good pay, and insisted upon the wife and children having plenty of everything. But when he disappeared there came a change, and there were grave doubts for a time whether Mrs. Silburn could make both ends meet, even with the most rigid economy. Then Kit began to earn a little; but although nearly every cent of his went to his mother, she was determined that every cent of his little savings should be set aside for his future use. It was only when there seemed a slight possibility of her husband’s being alive that she consented to use some of his money to repair and paint the house and pay the last of the indebtedness upon it. Her own small income barely sufficed to buy the plainest food. There was always, now, some of Kit’s money in the house; but of their own, as they called it, money that they were willing to spend, they were often reduced to two or three dollars.
Not long after the receipt of Kit’s letter, Vieve once more waved a white envelope as she descended the hill from the post-office, and this proved to be the long-expected answer from the consul in New Zealand. Mrs. Silburn turned it over and over many times, and examined the address and the postmarks and the strange stamp on the corner, before she could raise courage to open it. It was addressed to “Christopher Silburn, Esq.,” as it was in answer to his letter; and her agitation was so great that she was half inclined to make this a pretext for letting it stand unopened until Kit returned.
“Why, mother,” Vieve urged, “you know that was all arranged. He said the answer would be addressed to him, but that we should open it just the same. He would think we took no interest in it if we didn’t open it.”
“No, Kit couldn’t think that!” Mrs. Silburn declared; “he knows us too well for that.”
With trembling hand she cut off the end of the envelope with her scissors; but that was as far as she could go. That letter was destined, probably, either to overwhelm them with joy or fill them with grief; and she could not bring herself to look at it.
“Here, you read it,” she said, handing it, still in its envelope, to Vieve. “My hands shake so I can hardly hold it.”
Vieve quickly took out the letter and unfolded it.
U. S. Consulate, Wellington, N. Z. [she read].
Christopher Silburn, Esq., Huntington, Conn.
Dear Sir:—Your letter in regard to the supposed American sailor in the hospital in this place was duly received, and I have made such investigations as the data you supplied made possible. I also secured the services of a physician to compare the unfortunate man with your description, thinking that his larger experience in such matters would give his opinion greater value than my own.
But I regret that with all these inquiries my answer must still leave you in doubt whether this man is your father or not. We imagine that there is a slight scar upon the left temple, but it is so indistinct, if there really is one, that we think it hardly corresponds with the one you describe. Still we are not prepared to say definitely that it does not.
This man’s height is about five feet nine and a half inches, and you say your father was 5, 10½. But he stoops so much that it is difficult to get his height correctly, and he may in better days have been 5, 10½. We are not prepared to either say that his eyes are brown; they are a sort of brownish gray; and his weight is about 140 pounds, though it was only 127 when he was received in the hospital.
The teeth almost answer the description you give, being perfect except that one incisor on the left side is partly broken off. That is an accident, however, that might have happened since you last saw him.
On the whole, as I said before, I am unable from your description to decide whether this man is your father or not. I have mentioned to him all the names and incidents given in your letter, without the least result. He improves in physical health daily, but there is no corresponding improvement in his mental condition. His memory seems entirely dormant.
I had him photographed some time ago, but before the prints were made the negative was destroyed in a fire that burned a large share of the business portion of this city; and as soon as the photographers are able to resume business I will have a new negative made and send you a photograph.
I suggest that you send me as many further particulars as you can; and meanwhile you may rest assured that this unfortunate man, whether he prove to be your father or not, is comfortably situated and receiving all necessary attention.
Yours very truly,
Hy. W. W. Wilkins,
Vice-Consul of the U. S., Wellington, N. Z.
“Well, if that ain’t a disappointing letter!” Mrs. Silburn exclaimed, when Vieve had finished reading. “I should think a man right there on the spot could tell something about it. Won’t poor Kit be disappointed when he comes home, after all these weeks of waiting!”
“And still he has taken a great deal of pains about it,” Vieve suggested; “even to getting a doctor, and having a photograph taken. We can’t blame him because he is not able to say yes or no to a certainty. He knows how awkward it would be if he should say ‘Yes, this is the man,’ and then after we got him home he should prove to be another man entirely. I am glad he is so careful about it, at any rate. And it seems to me there is a great deal in the letter that is encouraging. Let’s read it over again, and pick out the good points.”
“But you will be late for school, Vieve,” her mother objected.
“School!” Vieve cried; “if I hurry, I may learn that Rio Janeiro is on the east coast of South America; and I don’t care a fig if it’s on the west coast of Asia, when there may be news about father.”
Mrs. Silburn looked up in surprise at hearing Vieve speak in this way, for school was a pleasure to her, not a labor. She saw that the light-hearted girl was in a great state of excitement, though she tried hard to suppress it, and the look was the last straw that brought on the storm.
“Oh, mamma!” she sobbed, with one arm across her eyes. “I believe that man—that man—in New Zealand—is my father!”
With another burst of tears she threw her arms around her mother’s neck and sobbed till the chair shook. And as such things are always contagious, Mrs. Silburn was soon crying too; and if tears are a relief, they must have felt much better, for it was ten or fifteen minutes before they were able to look at the letter again.
“Suppose it is your father,” Mrs. Silburn said at length, in a mildly chiding tone; “that’s nothing to cry about, is it? This unsatisfactory letter only makes another delay, that’s all. Kit will know what to do when he comes. He always knows. What is it the man says about your father’s teeth?”
“Well, he don’t say they’re father’s teeth,” she answered, trying to laugh off the remnants of her tears. “But he says that that man’s teeth—let me see what he does say—” and she turned to the letter again.
“‘The teeth almost answer the description you give,’” she read, “‘being perfect except that one incisor—’ what’s an incisor? oh, yes, I know; ‘that one incisor on the left side is partly broken off.’”
“Now isn’t that a good point?” she asked. “There ain’t many people have teeth like father’s, I tell you. And it’s nothing that one of them should be broken. I guess if we went through such a shipwreck we’d have more broken than one tooth. It’s easy to see how a mast, or a keel, or a—a—a breakwater or something might have struck him while he was in the water.
“Then there’s that scar,” she went on. “Let me see—” and she found that part of the letter again. “‘We imagine that there is a slight scar upon the left temple,’” she read. “Now why should they imagine it if it wasn’t there? You don’t imagine a scar; you see it. Oh, we couldn’t ask for anything better than that.”
There was no school for Vieve that morning; she was too much excited over the letter. But after it had been read again and well studied she drew her father’s armchair to his favorite place by the fireside, got out his slippers and stood them in order in front of the chair, just ready to be stepped into, and laid in the chair his pocket knife, that had been one of their treasures ever since Kit brought it home from London. Then she called in Turk and made him sit down beside the chair.
“There!” she said; “there’s a beginning. We have the chair, the slippers, the knife, and Turk waiting to be petted. And in New Zealand we have got as far as father’s beautiful teeth and the scar on the temple. Before long we’ll have a whole father sitting here with us, or I’m very much mistaken. I don’t feel so much as if he was missing now. We know where he is (at least I think we do), and we have only to get him home.”
“Ah, you are very hopeful, Vieve,” her mother sighed. “I only wish I felt as sure of it as you do.”
It was only two or three mornings after the receipt of the consul’s letter that Vieve once more waved an envelope as she hurried down the post-office hill.
“It’s another from Kit, mother,” she cried, as she burst into the room; “and it was registered and I had to sign a receipt for it, so there must be something important in it.”
There was no hesitation ever about opening Kit’s letters; they were always so hopeful and cheery.
“We are going to get our cargo in a little sooner than we expected,” he wrote, “and in about two weeks or two and a half after you receive this you may hear of our arrival in New York.
“I intended to send you the cardinal’s letter last time I wrote, but I was interrupted and had to mail it in a hurry, so I waited to send it in this. And I will register this letter to guard against it’s being lost in the mails, as a note from so powerful a person might be of great use to us in New Zealand, and I must not lose it. It is written in Latin, as you will see; and I am sorry to say that not one of us on the ship knows enough about Latin to read it. But maybe you can get our minister in Huntington or Vieve’s teacher to translate it for you. I should like to know myself what is in it. I shall not be very long, I tell you, about learning some languages besides English. I did not know how much use they could be to a man till I came to travel. I am picking up a little French in dealing with these French people, but have not had much time for it—for you must not think I have had nothing to do in Marseilles but look at the sights. I heard a funny little story the other day about an Englishman who was learning French. You know the ‘sea’ in French is mer, pronounced mare, and ‘horse’ is cheval. ‘Well,’ said he, after taking a few lessons, I never can learn such a foolish language as this, where the sea is a mare and a horse is a shovel.’”
“Did you ever see such a boy!” Mrs. Silburn exclaimed, handling Kit’s letter as if it were more precious than gold. “He always finds something funny wherever he goes.”
But Vieve was very much interested in the cardinal’s note, and the little scarlet emblem in the corner.
“I might take it to school and ask the teacher to translate it,” she said; “but I think Mr. Wright would be more interested in it. He always takes such an interest in Kit; and then although he is a minister, maybe he has never seen a letter from a cardinal.”
That same afternoon she took the letter to Mr. Wright, the clergyman who preached in the church across the road, and he readily consented to translate it.
“That is, if I can,” he added, smiling. “It is one good thing about the Catholics that they teach their young men Latin much more thoroughly than we learn it in our schools. The priests cannot only read and write it, but they can always converse in it fluently. But I think I can translate this for you; at any rate, I will write it out for you in English, for you probably could not remember it all.”
He read it over first carefully, and then wrote the following translation:—
Most Reverend and Well Beloved Brother: This will be presented to you by Mr. Christopher Silburn, a young American in whom I take an interest.
His father has been shipwrecked and has disappeared, and it is hoped that a sailor now in one of your New Zealand hospitals may prove to be the missing man.
I bespeak for my young friend your good offices in whatever manner may be fitting.
Accept, brother, the assurance of my continued love and esteem.
Galotti.
“Galotti—Galotti,” Mr. Wright said, musingly, as he copied the signature; “why, there is a celebrated cardinal of that name. This can hardly be from Cardinal Galotti, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir,” Vieve answered, swelling a little with pride in her brother; “that is the man. He is one of Kit’s friends in Marseilles.”
Such an astonishing statement had to be explained; and in answer to her pastor’s questions she repeated the story of their meeting in the strange church as Kit had told it in his letter.
“I am remarkably glad to hear it,” Mr. Wright said, when she finished. “Kit is a good boy, and sure to make good friends wherever he goes. But I imagine you have no idea what a powerful friend he has made this time. The cardinals hold the very highest position in the Catholic Church, next to the Pope himself. Such a letter as this from a cardinal to a bishop is almost equal to a royal command, and may be of the greatest use to you. Wait a minute; I think I can tell you something about Cardinal Galotti.”
He turned to a bookcase and took down a volume, and in a few minutes continued:—
“Yes, Galotti is one of the most eminent of the cardinals, and may eventually be the Pope himself. All the cardinals are called ecclesiastical princes, you know; but Galotti is a temporal prince as well, being a prince of Italy. No wonder he seemed so much at ease in the little throne they arranged for him in that curious church. I don’t believe in such things myself; but I am truly glad that Kit has made so powerful a friend.”
Whether Vieve had anything to say to the girls at school about “Kit’s friend the cardinal,” would be hard to tell; but in a little over two weeks more she ran down the post-office hill so fast one morning that her mother knew she had some news, though there was no letter in her hand.
What she had was a little slip that one of the neighbors she met in the office had torn out of his New York newspaper for her. It was only one line of fine type, under the heading “Arrived Yesterday”:
“North Cape, Griffith, from Marseilles.”