Tales of the Argonauts

Tales of the Argonauts Page 7

by Bret Harte

  AN EPISODE OF FIDDLETOWN.

  In 1858 Fiddletown considered her a very pretty woman. She had aquantity of light chestnut hair, a good figure, a dazzling complexion,and a certain languid grace which passed easily for gentlewomanliness.She always dressed becomingly, and in what Fiddletown accepted as thelatest fashion. She had only two blemishes: one of her velvety eyes,when examined closely, had a slight cast; and her left cheek bore asmall scar left by a single drop of vitriol--happily the only drop ofan entire phial--thrown upon her by one of her own jealous sex, thatreached the pretty face it was intended to mar. But, when the observerhad studied the eyes sufficiently to notice this defect, he wasgenerally incapacitated for criticism; and even the scar on her cheekwas thought by some to add piquancy to her smile. The youthful editorof "The Fiddletown Avalanche" had said privately that it was "anexaggerated dimple." Col. Starbottle was instantly "reminded of thebeautifying patches of the days of Queen Anne, but more particularly,sir, of the blankest beautiful women, that, blank you, you ever laidyour two blank eyes upon,--a Creole woman, sir, in New Orleans. And thiswoman had a scar,--a line extending, blank me, from her eye to herblank chin. And this woman, sir, thrilled you, sir; maddened you, sir;absolutely sent your blank soul to perdition with her blank fascination!And one day I said to her, 'Celeste, how in blank did you come by thatbeautiful scar, blank you?' And she said to me, 'Star, there isn'tanother white man that I'd confide in but you; but I made that scarmyself, purposely, I did, blank me.' These were her very words, sir, andperhaps you think it a blank lie, sir; but I'll put up any blank sum youcan name and prove it, blank me."

  Indeed, most of the male population of Fiddletown were or had been inlove with her. Of this number, about one-half believed that their lovewas returned, with the exception, possibly, of her own husband. He alonehad been known to express scepticism.

  The name of the gentleman who enjoyed this infelicitous distinction wasTretherick. He had been divorced from an excellent wife to marry thisFiddletown enchantress. She, also, had been divorced; but it was hintedthat some previous experiences of hers in that legal formality had madeit perhaps less novel, and probably less sacrificial. I would not haveit inferred from this that she was deficient in sentiment, or devoid ofits highest moral expression. Her intimate friend had written (on theoccasion of her second divorce), "The cold world does not understandClara yet;" and Col. Starbottle had remarked blankly, that with theexception of a single woman in Opelousas Parish, La., she had more soulthan the whole caboodle of them put together. Few indeed could readthose lines entitled "Infelissimus," commencing, "Why waves no cypresso'er this brow?" originally published in "The Avalanche," over thesignature of "The Lady Clare," without feeling the tear of sensibilitytremble on his eyelids, or the glow of virtuous indignation mantle hischeek, at the low brutality and pitiable jocularity of "The Dutch FlatIntelligencer," which the next week had suggested the exotic characterof the cypress, and its entire absence from Fiddletown, as a reasonableanswer to the query.

  Indeed, it was this tendency to elaborate her feelings in a metricalmanner, and deliver them to the cold world through the medium of thenewspapers, that first attracted the attention of Tretherick. Severalpoems descriptive of the effects of California scenery upon a toosensitive soul, and of the vague yearnings for the infinite, which anenforced study of the heartlessness of California society produced inthe poetic breast, impressed Mr. Tretherick, who was then driving asix-mule freight-wagon between Knight's Ferry and Stockton, to seek outthe unknown poetess. Mr. Tretherick was himself dimly conscious of acertain hidden sentiment in his own nature; and it is possible thatsome reflections on the vanity of his pursuit,--he supplied severalmining-camps with whiskey and tobacco,--in conjunction with thedreariness of the dusty plain on which he habitually drove, may havetouched some chord in sympathy with this sensitive woman. Howbeit, aftera brief courtship,--as brief as was consistent with some previous legalformalities,--they were married; and Mr. Tretherick brought his blushingbride to Fiddletown, or "Fideletown," as Mrs. Tretherick preferred tocall it in her poems.

  The union was not a felicitous one. It was not long before Mr.Tretherick discovered that the sentiment he had fostered whilefreighting between Stockton and Knight's Ferry was different from thatwhich his wife had evolved from the contemplation of California sceneryand her own soul. Being a man of imperfect logic, this caused him tobeat her; and she, being equally faulty in deduction, was impelled toa certain degree of unfaithfulness on the same premise. Then Mr.Tretherick began to drink, and Mrs. Tretherick to contribute regularlyto the columns of "The Avalanche." It was at this time that Col.Starbottle discovered a similarity in Mrs. Tretherick's verse to thegenius of Sappho, and pointed it out to the citizens of Fiddletown ina two-columned criticism, signed "A. S.," also published in "TheAvalanche," and supported by extensive quotation. As "The Avalanche" didnot possess a font of Greek type, the editor was obliged to reproducethe Leucadian numbers in the ordinary Roman letter, to the intensedisgust of Col. Starbottle, and the vast delight of Fiddletown, who sawfit to accept the text as an excellent imitation of Choctaw,--a languagewith which the colonel, as a whilom resident of the Indian Territories,was supposed to be familiar. Indeed, the next week's "Intelligencer"contained some vile doggerel, supposed to be an answer to Mrs.Tretherick's poem, ostensibly written by the wife of a Digger Indianchief, accompanied by a glowing eulogium, signed "A. S. S."

  The result of this jocularity was briefly given in a later copy of"The Avalanche." "An unfortunate rencounter took place on Monday last,between the Hon. Jackson Flash of 'The Dutch Flat Intelligencer' and thewell-known Col. Starbottle of this place, in front of the Eureka saloon.Two shots were fired by the parties without injury to either, althoughit is said that a passing Chinaman received fifteen buckshot in thecalves of his legs from the colonel's double-barrelled shot-gun, whichwere not intended for him. John will learn to keep out of the way ofMelican man's fire-arms hereafter. The cause of the affray is not known,although it is hinted that there is a lady in the case. The rumor thatpoints to a well-known and beautiful poetess whose lucubrations haveoften graced our columns seems to gain credence from those that areposted."

  Meanwhile the passiveness displayed by Tretherick under these tryingcircumstances was fully appreciated in the gulches. "The old man'shead is level," said one long-booted philosopher. "Ef the colonelkills Flash, Mrs. Tretherick is avenged: if Flash drops the colonel,Tretherick is all right. Either way, he's got a sure thing." Duringthis delicate condition of affairs, Mrs. Tretherick one day left herhusband's home, and took refuge at the Fiddletown Hotel, with only theclothes she had on her back. Here she staid for several weeks, duringwhich period it is only justice to say that she bore herself with thestrictest propriety.

  It was a clear morning in early spring that Mrs. Tretherick, unattended,left the hotel, and walked down the narrow street toward the fringe ofdark pines which indicated the extreme limits of Fiddletown. The fewloungers at that early hour were pre-occupied with the departure of theWingdown coach at the other extremity of the street; and Mrs. Tretherickreached the suburbs of the settlement without discomposing observation.Here she took a cross street or road, running at right angles with themain thoroughfare of Fiddletown, and passing through a belt of woodland.It was evidently the exclusive and aristocratic avenue of the town. Thedwellings were few, ambitious, and uninterrupted by shops. And here shewas joined by Col. Starbottle.

  The gallant colonel, notwithstanding that he bore the swelling portwhich usually distinguished him, that his coat was tightly buttoned, andhis boots tightly fitting, and that his cane, hooked over his arm,swung jauntily, was not entirely at his ease. Mrs. Tretherick, however,vouchsafed him a gracious smile and a glance of her dangerous eyes;and the colonel, with an embarrassed cough and a slight strut, took hisplace at her side.

  "The coast is clear," said the colonel, "and Tretherick is over at DutchFlat on a spree. There is no one in the house but a Chinaman; and youneed fear no trouble from him. I," he continued
, with a slight inflationof the chest that imperilled the security of his button, "I will seethat you are protected in the removal of your property."

  "I'm sure it's very kind of you, and so disinterested!" simpered thelady as they walked along. "It's so pleasant to meet some one whohas soul,--some one to sympathize with in a community so hardened andheartless as this." And Mrs. Tretherick cast down her eyes, but notuntil they wrought their perfect and accepted work upon her companion.

  "Yes, certainly, of course," said the colonel, glancing nervously up anddown the street,--"yes, certainly." Perceiving, however, that therewas no one in sight or hearing, he proceeded at once to inform Mrs.Tretherick that the great trouble of his life, in fact, had been thepossession of too much soul. That many women--as a gentleman she wouldexcuse him, of course, from mentioning names--but many beautiful womenhad often sought his society, but being deficient, madam, absolutelydeficient, in this quality, he could not reciprocate. But when twonatures thoroughly in sympathy, despising alike the sordid trammels ofa low and vulgar community, and the conventional restraints of ahypocritical society,--when two souls in perfect accord met and mingledin poetical union, then--but here the colonel's speech, which had beenremarkable for a certain whiskey-and-watery fluency, grew husky, almostinaudible, and decidedly incoherent. Possibly Mrs. Tretherick may haveheard something like it before, and was enabled to fill the hiatus.Nevertheless, the cheek that was on the side of the colonel was quitevirginal and bashfully conscious until they reached their destination.

  It was a pretty little cottage, quite fresh and warm with paint, verypleasantly relieved against a platoon of pines, some of whose foremostfiles had been displaced to give freedom to the fenced enclosure inwhich it sat. In the vivid sunlight and perfect silence, it had a new,uninhabited look, as if the carpenters and painters had just left it. Atthe farther end of the lot, a Chinaman was stolidly digging; but therewas no other sign of occupancy. "The coast," as the colonel had said,was indeed "clear." Mrs. Tretherick paused at the gate. The colonelwould have entered with her, but was stopped by a gesture. "Come for mein a couple of hours, and I shall have every thing packed," she said,as she smiled, and extended her hand. The colonel seized and pressed itwith great fervor. Perhaps the pressure was slightly returned; for thegallant colonel was impelled to inflate his chest, and trip away assmartly as his stubby-toed, high-heeled boots would permit. When he hadgone, Mrs. Tretherick opened the door, listened a moment in the desertedhall, and then ran quickly up stairs to what had been her bedroom.

  Every thing there was unchanged as on the night she left it. On thedressing-table stood her bandbox, as she remembered to have left itwhen she took out her bonnet. On the mantle lay the other glove she hadforgotten in her flight. The two lower drawers of the bureau were halfopen (she had forgotten to shut them); and on its marble top lay hershawl-pin and a soiled cuff. What other recollections came upon her Iknow not; but she suddenly grew quite white, shivered, and listened witha beating heart, and her hand upon the door. Then she stepped to themirror, and half fearfully, half curiously, parted with her fingers thebraids of her blonde hair above her little pink ear, until she came uponan ugly, half-healed scar. She gazed at this, moving her pretty headup and down to get a better light upon it, until the slight cast in hervelvety eyes became very strongly marked indeed. Then she turned awaywith a light, reckless, foolish laugh, and ran to the closet wherehung her precious dresses. These she inspected nervously, and missingsuddenly a favorite black silk from its accustomed peg, for a moment,thought she should have fainted. But discovering it the next instantlying upon a trunk where she had thrown it, a feeling of thankfulnessto a superior Being who protects the friendless, for the first timesincerely thrilled her. Then, albeit she was hurried for time, she couldnot resist trying the effect of a certain lavender neck-ribbon upon thedress she was then wearing, before the mirror. And then suddenly shebecame aware of a child's voice close beside her, and she stopped. Andthen the child's voice repeated, "Is it mamma?"

  Mrs. Tretherick faced quickly about. Standing in the doorway was alittle girl of six or seven. Her dress had been originally fine, but wastorn and dirty; and her hair, which was a very violent red, was tumbledserio-comically about her forehead. For all this, she was a picturesquelittle thing, even through whose childish timidity there was a certainself-sustained air which is apt to come upon children who are left muchto themselves. She was holding under her arm a rag doll, apparentlyof her own workmanship, and nearly as large as herself,--a doll with acylindrical head, and features roughly indicated with charcoal. Along shawl, evidently belonging to a grown person, dropped from hershoulders, and swept the floor.

  The spectacle did not excite Mrs. Tretherick's delight. Perhaps she hadbut a small sense of humor. Certainly, when the child, still standing inthe doorway, again asked, "Is it mamma?" she answered sharply, "No, itisn't," and turned a severe look upon the intruder.

  The child retreated a step, and then, gaining courage with the distance,said in deliciously imperfect speech,--

  "Dow 'way then! why don't you dow away?"

  But Mrs. Tretherick was eying the shawl. Suddenly she whipped it off thechild's shoulders, and said angrily,--

  "How dared you take my things, you bad child?"

  "Is it yours? Then you are my mamma; ain't you? You are mamma!" shecontinued gleefully; and, before Mrs. Tretherick could avoid her, shehad dropped her doll, and, catching the woman's skirts with both hands,was dancing up and down before her.

  "What's your name, child?" said Mrs. Tretherick coldly, removing thesmall and not very white hands from her garments.

  "Tarry."

  "Tarry?"

  "Yeth. Tarry. Tarowline."

  "Caroline?"

  "Yeth. Tarowline Tretherick."

  "Whose child ARE you?" demanded Mrs. Tretherick still more coldly, tokeep down a rising fear.

  "Why, yours," said the little creature with a laugh. "I'm your littledurl. You're my mamma, my new mamma. Don't you know my ole mamma's dornaway, never to turn back any more? I don't live wid my ol' mamma now. Ilive wid you and papa."

  "How long have you been here?" asked Mrs. Tretherick snappishly.

  "I fink it's free days," said Carry reflectively.

  "You think! Don't you know?" sneered Mrs. Tretherick. "Then, where didyou come from?"

  Carry's lip began to work under this sharp cross-examination. With agreat effort and a small gulp, she got the better of it, and answered,--

  "Papa, papa fetched me,--from Miss Simmons--from Sacramento, last week."

  "Last week! You said three days just now," returned Mrs. Tretherick withsevere deliberation.

  "I mean a monf," said Carry, now utterly adrift in sheer helplessnessand confusion.

  "Do you know what you are talking about?" demanded Mrs. Tretherickshrilly, restraining an impulse to shake the little figure before her,and precipitate the truth by specific gravity.

  But the flaming red head here suddenly disappeared in the folds of Mrs.Tretherick's dress, as if it were trying to extinguish itself forever.

  "There now--stop that sniffling," said Mrs. Tretherick, extricatingher dress from the moist embraces of the child, and feeling exceedinglyuncomfortable. "Wipe your face now, and run away, and don't bother.Stop," she continued, as Carry moved away. "Where's your papa?"

  "He's dorn away too. He's sick. He's been dorn"--she hesitated--"two,free, days."

  "Who takes care of you, child?" said Mrs. Tretherick, eying hercuriously.

  "John, the Chinaman. I tresses myselth. John tooks and makes the beds."

  "Well, now, run away and behave yourself, and don't bother me any more,"said Mrs. Tretherick, remembering the object of her visit. "Stop--whereare you going?" she added, as the child began to ascend the stairs,dragging the long doll after her by one helpless leg.

  "Doin up stairs to play and be dood, and no bother mamma."

  "I ain't your mamma," shouted Mrs. Tretherick, and then she swiftlyre-entered her bedroom, and slammed the door
.

  Once inside, she drew forth a large trunk from the closet, and set towork with querulous and fretful haste to pack her wardrobe. She tore herbest dress in taking it from the hook on which it hung: she scratchedher soft hands twice with an ambushed pin. All the while, she kept up anindignant commentary on the events of the past few moments. She said toherself she saw it all. Tretherick had sent for this child of his firstwife--this child of whose existence he had never seemed to care--justto insult her, to fill her place. Doubtless the first wife herself wouldfollow soon, or perhaps there would be a third. Red hair, not auburn,but RED,--of course the child, this Caroline, looked like its mother,and, if so, she was any thing but pretty. Or the whole thing had beenprepared: this red-haired child, the image of its mother, had beenkept at a convenient distance at Sacramento, ready to be sent for whenneeded. She remembered his occasional visits there on--business, as hesaid. Perhaps the mother already was there; but no, she had gone East.Nevertheless, Mrs. Tretherick, in her then state of mind, preferred todwell upon the fact that she might be there. She was dimly conscious,also, of a certain satisfaction in exaggerating her feelings. Surelyno woman had ever been so shamefully abused. In fancy, she sketcheda picture of herself sitting alone and deserted, at sunset, amongthe fallen columns of a ruined temple, in a melancholy yet gracefulattitude, while her husband drove rapidly away in a luxuriouscoach-and-four, with a red-haired woman at his side. Sitting uponthe trunk she had just packed, she partly composed a lugubrious poem,describing her sufferings, as, wandering alone, and poorly clad, shecame upon her husband and "another" flaunting in silks and diamonds.She pictured herself dying of consumption, brought on by sorrow,--abeautiful wreck, yet still fascinating, gazed upon adoringly by theeditor of "The Avalanche," and Col. Starbottle. And where was Col.Starbottle all this while? Why didn't he come? He, at least, understoodher. He--she laughed the reckless, light laugh of a few moments before;and then her face suddenly grew grave, as it had not a few momentsbefore.

  What was that little red-haired imp doing all this time? Why was she soquiet? She opened the door noiselessly, and listened. She fanciedthat she heard, above the multitudinous small noises and creakingsand warpings of the vacant house, a smaller voice singing on the floorabove. This, as she remembered, was only an open attic that had beenused as a storeroom. With a half-guilty consciousness, she crept softlyup stairs, and, pushing the door partly open, looked within.

  Athwart the long, low-studded attic, a slant sunbeam from a single smallwindow lay, filled with dancing motes, and only half illuminating thebarren, dreary apartment. In the ray of this sunbeam she saw the child'sglowing hair, as if crowned by a red aureola, as she sat upon the floorwith her exaggerated doll between her knees. She appeared to be talkingto it; and it was not long before Mrs. Tretherick observed that she wasrehearsing the interview of a half-hour before. She catechised thedoll severely, cross-examining it in regard to the duration of itsstay there, and generally on the measure of time. The imitation of Mrs.Tretherick's manner was exceedingly successful, and the conversationalmost a literal reproduction, with a single exception. After she hadinformed the doll that she was not her mother, at the close of theinterview she added pathetically, "that if she was dood, very dood, shemight be her mamma, and love her very much."

  I have already hinted that Mrs. Tretherick was deficient in a sense ofhumor. Perhaps it was for this reason that this whole scene affectedher most unpleasantly; and the conclusion sent the blood tingling to hercheek. There was something, too, inconceivably lonely in the situation.The unfurnished vacant room, the half-lights, the monstrous doll, whosevery size seemed to give a pathetic significance to its speechlessness,the smallness of the one animate, self-centred figure,--all thesetouched more or less deeply the half-poetic sensibilities of the woman.She could not help utilizing the impression as she stood there, andthought what a fine poem might be constructed from this material, if theroom were a little darker, the child lonelier,--say, sitting beside adead mother's bier, and the wind wailing in the turrets. And then shesuddenly heard footsteps at the door below, and recognized the tread ofthe colonel's cane.

  She flew swiftly down the stairs, and encountered the colonel in thehall. Here she poured into his astonished ear a voluble and exaggeratedstatement of her discovery, and indignant recital of her wrongs. "Don'ttell me the whole thing wasn't arranged beforehand; for I know it was!"she almost screamed. "And think," she added, "of the heartlessness ofthe wretch, leaving his own child alone here in that way."

  "It's a blank shame!" stammered the colonel without the least ideaof what he was talking about. In fact, utterly unable as he was tocomprehend a reason for the woman's excitement with his estimate ofher character, I fear he showed it more plainly than he intended. Hestammered, expanded his chest, looked stern, gallant, tender, butall unintelligently. Mrs. Tretherick, for an instant, experienced asickening doubt of the existence of natures in perfect affinity.

  "It's of no use," said Mrs. Tretherick with sudden vehemence, in answerto some inaudible remark of the colonel's, and withdrawing her hand fromthe fervent grasp of that ardent and sympathetic man. "It's of no use:my mind is made up. You can send for my trunk as soon as you like; but Ishall stay here, and confront that man with the proof of his vileness. Iwill put him face to face with his infamy."

  I do not know whether Col. Starbottle thoroughly appreciated theconvincing proof of Tretherick's unfaithfulness and malignity affordedby the damning evidence of the existence of Tretherick's own child inhis own house. He was dimly aware, however, of some unforeseen obstacleto the perfect expression of the infinite longing of his own sentimentalnature. But, before he could say any thing, Carry appeared on thelanding above them, looking timidly, and yet half-critically at thepair.

  "That's her," said Mrs. Tretherick excitedly. In her deepest emotions,either in verse or prose, she rose above a consideration of grammaticalconstruction.

  "Ah!" said the colonel, with a sudden assumption of parental affectionand jocularity that was glaringly unreal and affected. "Ah! prettylittle girl, pretty little girl! How do you do? How are you? You findyourself pretty well, do you, pretty little girl?" The colonel's impulsealso was to expand his chest, and swing his cane, until it occurred tohim that this action might be ineffective with a child of six or seven.Carry, however, took no immediate notice of this advance, butfurther discomposed the chivalrous colonel by running quickly to Mrs.Tretherick, and hiding herself, as if for protection, in the folds ofher gown. Nevertheless, the colonel was not vanquished. Falling backinto an attitude of respectful admiration, he pointed out a marvellousresemblance to the "Madonna and Child." Mrs. Tretherick simpered, butdid not dislodge Carry as before. There was an awkward pause for amoment; and then Mrs. Tretherick, motioning significantly to the child,said in a whisper, "Go now. Don't come here again, but meet meto-night at the hotel." She extended her hand: the colonel bent over itgallantly, and, raising his hat, the next moment was gone.

  "Do you think," said Mrs. Tretherick with an embarrassed voice and aprodigious blush, looking down, and addressing the fiery curls justvisible in the folds of her dress,--"do you think you will be 'dood,' ifI let you stay in here and sit with me?"

  "And let me tall you mamma?" queried Carry, looking up.

  "And let you call me mamma!" assented Mrs. Tretherick with anembarrassed laugh.

  "Yeth," said Carry promptly.

  They entered the bedroom together. Carry's eye instantly caught sight ofthe trunk.

  "Are you dowin away adain, mamma?" she said with a quick nervous look,and a clutch at the woman's dress.

  "No-o," said Mrs. Tretherick, looking out of the window.

  "Only playing your dowin away," suggested Carry with a laugh. "Let meplay too."

  Mrs. Tretherick assented. Carry flew into the next room, and presentlyre-appeared, dragging a small trunk, into which she gravely proceededto pack her clothes. Mrs. Tretherick noticed that they were not many. Aquestion or two regarding them brought out some further replies fromthe chi
ld; and, before many minutes had elapsed, Mrs. Tretherick was inpossession of all her earlier history. But, to do this, Mrs. Tretherickhad been obliged to take Carry upon her lap, pending the mostconfidential disclosures. They sat thus a long time after Mrs.Tretherick had apparently ceased to be interested in Carry'sdisclosures; and, when lost in thought, she allowed the child to rattleon unheeded, and ran her fingers through the scarlet curls.

  "You don't hold me right, mamma," said Carry at last, after one or twouneasy shiftings of position.

  "How should I hold you?" asked Mrs. Tretherick with a half-amused,half-embarrassed laugh.

  "Dis way," said Carry, curling up into position, with one arm aroundMrs. Tretherick's neck, and her cheek resting on her bosom,--"disway,--dere." After a little preparatory nestling, not unlike some smallanimal, she closed her eyes, and went to sleep.

  For a few moments the woman sat silent, scarcely daring to breathe inthat artificial attitude. And then, whether from some occult sympathy inthe touch, or God best knows what, a sudden fancy began to thrill her.She began by remembering an old pain that she had forgotten, an oldhorror that she had resolutely put away all these years. She recalleddays of sickness and distrust,--days of an overshadowing fear,--days ofpreparation for something that was to be prevented, that WAS prevented,with mortal agony and fear. She thought of a life that might havebeen,--she dared not say HAD been,--and wondered. It was six years ago:if it had lived, it would have been as old as Carry. The arms which werefolded loosely around the sleeping child began to tremble, and tightentheir clasp. And then the deep potential impulse came, and with ahalf-sob, half-sigh, she threw her arms out, and drew the body of thesleeping child down, down, into her breast, down again and again as ifshe would hide it in the grave dug there years before. And the gust thatshook her passed, and then, ah me! the rain.

  A drop or two fell upon the curls of Carry, and she moved uneasily inher sleep. But the woman soothed her again,--it was so easy to do itnow,--and they sat there quiet and undisturbed, so quiet that they mighthave seemed incorporate of the lonely silent house, the slowly-decliningsunbeams, and the general air of desertion and abandonment, yet adesertion that had in it nothing of age, decay, or despair.

  Col. Starbottle waited at the Fiddletown hotel all that night in vain.And the next morning, when Mr. Tretherick returned to his husks, hefound the house vacant and untenanted, except by motes and sunbeams.

  When it was fairly known that Mrs. Tretherick had run away, taking Mr.Tretherick's own child with her, there was some excitement, and muchdiversity of opinion, in Fiddletown. "The Dutch Flat Intelligencer"openly alluded to the "forcible abduction" of the child with the samefreedom, and it is to be feared the same prejudice, with which it hadcriticised the abductor's poetry. All of Mrs. Tretherick's own sex, andperhaps a few of the opposite sex, whose distinctive quality was not,however, very strongly indicated, fully coincided in the views of "TheIntelligencer." The majority, however, evaded the moral issue: thatMrs. Tretherick had shaken the red dust of Fiddletown from her daintyslippers was enough for them to know. They mourned the loss of the fairabductor more than her offence. They promptly rejected Tretherick asan injured husband and disconsolate father, and even went so far as toopenly cast discredit on the sincerity of his grief. They reserved anironical condolence for Col. Starbottle, overbearing that excellentman with untimely and demonstrative sympathy in bar-rooms, saloons,and other localities not generally deemed favorable to the displayof sentiment. "She was alliz a skittish thing, kernel," said onesympathizer, with a fine affectation of gloomy concern, and greatreadiness of illustration; "and it's kinder nat'ril thet she'd get awaysome day, and stampede that theer colt: but thet she should shake YOU,kernel, thet she should just shake you--is what gits me. And they dosay thet you jist hung around thet hotel all night, and payrolled themcorriders, and histed yourself up and down them stairs, and meanderedin and out o' thet piazzy, and all for nothing?" It was another generousand tenderly commiserating spirit that poured additional oil and wineon the colonel's wounds. "The boys yer let on thet Mrs. Tretherickprevailed on ye to pack her trunk and a baby over from the house to thestage-offis, and that the chap ez did go off with her thanked you, andoffered you two short bits, and sed ez how he liked your looks, and udemploy you agin--and now you say it ain't so? Well, I'll tell the boysit aint so, and I'm glad I met you, for stories DO get round."

  Happily for Mrs. Tretherick's reputation, however, the Chinaman inTretherick's employment, who was the only eye-witness of her flight,stated that she was unaccompanied, except by the child. He furtherdeposed, that, obeying her orders, he had stopped the Sacramento coach,and secured a passage for herself and child to San Francisco. It wastrue that Ah Fe's testimony was of no legal value. But nobody doubtedit. Even those who were sceptical of the Pagan's ability to recognizethe sacredness of the truth admitted his passionless, unprejudicedunconcern. But it would appear, from a hitherto unrecorded passage ofthis veracious chronicle, that herein they were mistaken.

  It was about six months after the disappearance of Mrs. Tretherick,that Ah Fe, while working in Tretherick's lot, was hailed by two passingChinamen. They were the ordinary mining coolies, equipped with longpoles and baskets for their usual pilgrimages. An animated conversationat once ensued between Ah Fe and his brother Mongolians,--a conversationcharacterized by that usual shrill volubility and apparent animositywhich was at once the delight and scorn of the intelligent Caucasian whodid not understand a word of it. Such, at least, was the feelingwith which Mr. Tretherick on his veranda, and Col. Starbottle who waspassing, regarded their heathenish jargon. The gallant colonel simplykicked them out of his way: the irate Tretherick, with an oath, threw astone at the group, and dispersed them, but not before one or two slipsof yellow rice-paper, marked with hieroglyphics, were exchanged, and asmall parcel put into Ah Fe's hands. When Ah Fe opened this in the dimsolitude of his kitchen, he found a little girl's apron, freshly washed,ironed, and folded. On the corner of the hem were the initials "C. T."Ah Fe tucked it away in a corner of his blouse, and proceeded to washhis dishes in the sink with a smile of guileless satisfaction.

  Two days after this, Ah Fe confronted his master. "Me no likeeFiddletown. Me belly sick. Me go now." Mr. Tretherick violentlysuggested a profane locality. Ah Fe gazed at him placidly, and withdrew.

  Before leaving Fiddletown, however, he accidentally met Col. Starbottle,and dropped a few incoherent phrases which apparently interested thatgentleman. When he concluded, the colonel handed him a letter anda twenty-dollar gold-piece. "If you bring me an answer, I'll doublethat--Sabe, John?" Ah Fe nodded. An interview equally accidental,with precisely the same result, took place between Ah Fe and anothergentleman, whom I suspect to have been the youthful editor of "TheAvalanche." Yet I regret to state, that, after proceeding some distanceon his journey, Ah Fe calmly broke the seals of both letters, and, aftertrying to read them upside down and sideways, finally divided them intoaccurate squares, and in this condition disposed of them to a brotherCelestial whom he met on the road, for a trifling gratuity. The agony ofCol. Starbottle on finding his wash-bill made out on the unwritten sideof one of these squares, and delivered to him with his weekly cleanclothes, and the subsequent discovery that the remaining portions of hisletter were circulated by the same method from the Chinese laundryof one Fung Ti of Fiddletown, has been described to me as peculiarlyaffecting. Yet I am satisfied that a higher nature, rising above thelevity induced by the mere contemplation of the insignificant detailsof this breach of trust, would find ample retributive justice in thedifficulties that subsequently attended Ah Fe's pilgrimage.

  On the road to Sacramento he was twice playfully thrown from the topof the stage-coach by an intelligent but deeply-intoxicated Caucasian,whose moral nature was shocked at riding with one addicted toopium-smoking. At Hangtown he was beaten by a passing stranger,--purelyan act of Christian supererogation. At Dutch Flat he was robbed bywell-known hands from unknown motives. At Sacramento he was arrestedon suspicion of being something
or other, and discharged with a severereprimand--possibly for not being it, and so delaying the course ofjustice. At San Francisco he was freely stoned by children of the publicschools; but, by carefully avoiding these monuments of enlightenedprogress, he at last reached, in comparative safety, the Chinesequarters, where his abuse was confined to the police, and limited by thestrong arm of the law.

  The next day he entered the wash-house of Chy Fook as an assistant, andon the following Friday was sent with a basket of clean clothes to ChyFook's several clients.

  It was the usual foggy afternoon as he climbed the long wind-swept hillof California Street,--one of those bleak, gray intervals that made thesummer a misnomer to any but the liveliest San Franciscan fancy. Therewas no warmth or color in earth or sky, no light nor shade within orwithout, only one monotonous, universal neutral tint over every thing.There was a fierce unrest in the wind-whipped streets: there was adreary vacant quiet in the gray houses. When Ah Fe reached the top ofthe hill, the Mission Ridge was already hidden; and the chill sea-breezemade him shiver. As he put down his basket to rest himself, it ispossible, that, to his defective intelligence and heathen experience,this "God's own climate," as it was called, seemed to possess butscant tenderness, softness, or mercy. But it is possible that AhFe illogically confounded this season with his old persecutors, theschool-children, who, being released from studious confinement, at thishour were generally most aggressive. So he hastened on, and, turning acorner, at last stopped before a small house.

  It was the usual San Franciscan urban cottage. There was the littlestrip of cold green shrubbery before it; the chilly, bare veranda, andabove this, again, the grim balcony, on which no one sat. Ah Fe rangthe bell. A servant appeared, glanced at his basket, and reluctantlyadmitted him, as if he were some necessary domestic animal. Ah Fesilently mounted the stairs, and, entering the open door of thefront-chamber, put down the basket, and stood passively on thethreshold.

  A woman, who was sitting in the cold gray light of the window, with achild in her lap, rose listlessly, and came toward him. Ah Fe instantlyrecognized Mrs. Tretherick; but not a muscle of his immobile facechanged, nor did his slant eyes lighten as he met her own placidly. Sheevidently did not recognize him as she began to count the clothes. Butthe child, curiously examining him, suddenly uttered a short, glad cry.

  "Why, it's John, mamma! It's our old John what we had in Fiddletown."

  For an instant Ah Fe's eyes and teeth electrically lightened. The childclapped her hands, and caught at his blouse. Then he said shortly, "MeJohn--Ah Fe--allee same. Me know you. How do?"

  Mrs. Tretherick dropped the clothes nervously, and looked hard at Ah Fe.Wanting the quick-witted instinct of affection that sharpened Carry'sperception, she even then could not distinguish him above his fellows.With a recollection of past pain, and an obscure suspicion of impendingdanger, she asked him when he had left Fiddletown.

  "Longee time. No likee Fiddletown, no likee Tlevelick. Likee San Flisco.Likee washee. Likee Tally."

  Ah Fe's laconics pleased Mrs. Tretherick. She did not stop to considerhow much an imperfect knowledge of English added to his curt directnessand sincerity. But she said, "Don't tell anybody you have seen me," andtook out her pocket-book.

  Ah Fe, without looking at it, saw that it was nearly empty. Ah Fe,without examining the apartment, saw that it was scantily furnished.Ah Fe, without removing his eyes from blank vacancy, saw that both Mrs.Tretherick and Carry were poorly dressed. Yet it is my duty tostate that Ah Fe's long fingers closed promptly and firmly over thehalf-dollar which Mrs. Tretherick extended to him.

  Then he began to fumble in his blouse with a series of extraordinarycontortions. After a few moments, he extracted from apparently noparticular place a child's apron, which he laid upon the basket with theremark,--

  "One piecee washman flagittee."

  Then he began anew his fumblings and contortions. At last his effortswere rewarded by his producing, apparently from his right ear, amany-folded piece of tissue-paper. Unwrapping this carefully, he atlast disclosed two twenty-dollar gold-pieces, which he handed to Mrs.Tretherick.

  "You leavee money topside of blulow, Fiddletown. Me findee money. Mefetchee money to you. All lightee."

  "But I left no money on the top of the bureau, John," said Mrs.Tretherick earnestly. "There must be some mistake. It belongs to someother person. Take it back, John."

  Ah Fe's brow darkened. He drew away from Mrs. Tretherick's extendedhand, and began hastily to gather up his basket.

  "Me no takee it back. No, no! Bimeby pleesman he catchee me. He say,'God damn thief!--catchee flowty dollar: come to jailee.' Me no takeeback. You leavee money top-side blulow, Fiddletown. Me fetchee moneyyou. Me no takee back."

  Mrs. Tretherick hesitated. In the confusion of her flight, she MIGHThave left the money in the manner he had said. In any event, she had noright to jeopardize this honest Chinaman's safety by refusing it. So shesaid, "Very well. John, I will keep it. But you must come again and seeme"--here Mrs. Tretherick hesitated with a new and sudden revelation ofthe fact that any man could wish to see any other than herself--"and,and--Carry."

  Ah Fe's face lightened. He even uttered a short ventriloquistic laughwithout moving his mouth. Then shouldering his basket, he shut the doorcarefully, and slid quietly down stairs. In the lower hall he, however,found an unexpected difficulty in opening the front-door, and, afterfumbling vainly at the lock for a moment, looked around for some helpor instruction. But the Irish handmaid who had let him in wascontemptuously oblivious of his needs, and did not appear.

  There occurred a mysterious and painful incident, which I shall simplyrecord without attempting to explain. On the hall-table a scarf,evidently the property of the servant before alluded to, was lying.As Ah Fe tried the lock with one hand, the other rested lightly on thetable. Suddenly, and apparently of its own volition, the scarf began tocreep slowly towards Ah Fe's hand; from Ah Fe's hand it began to creepup his sleeve slowly, and with an insinuating, snake-like motion;and then disappeared somewhere in the recesses of his blouse. Withoutbetraying the least interest or concern in this phenomenon, Ah Fe stillrepeated his experiments upon the lock. A moment later the tableclothof red damask, moved by apparently the same mysterious impulse, slowlygathered itself under Ah Fe's fingers, and sinuously disappeared by thesame hidden channel. What further mystery might have followed, I cannotsay; for at this moment Ah Fe discovered the secret of the lock, and wasenabled to open the door coincident with the sound of footsteps uponthe kitchen-stairs. Ah Fe did not hasten his movements, but, patientlyshouldering his basket, closed the door carefully behind him again, andstepped forth into the thick encompassing fog that now shrouded earthand sky.

  From her high casement-window, Mrs. Tretherick watched Ah Fe's figureuntil it disappeared in the gray cloud. In her present loneliness, shefelt a keen sense of gratitude toward him, and may have ascribed tothe higher emotions and the consciousness of a good deed, that certainexpansiveness of the chest, and swelling of the bosom, that was reallydue to the hidden presence of the scarf and tablecloth under his blouse.For Mrs. Tretherick was still poetically sensitive. As the gray fogdeepened into night, she drew Carry closer towards her, and, abovethe prattle of the child, pursued a vein of sentimental and egotisticrecollection at once bitter and dangerous. The sudden apparition of AhFe linked her again with her past life at Fiddletown. Over the drearyinterval between, she was now wandering,--a journey so piteous, wilful,thorny, and useless, that it was no wonder that at last Carry stoppedsuddenly in the midst of her voluble confidences to throw her small armsaround the woman's neck, and bid her not to cry.

  Heaven forefend that I should use a pen that should be ever dedicatedto an exposition of unalterable moral principle to transcribe Mrs.Tretherick's own theory of this interval and episode, with its feeblepalliations, its illogical deductions, its fond excuses, and weakapologies. It would seem, however, that her experience had been hard.Her slender stock of money was soon exhausted. At Sacramento shefound th
at the composition of verse, although appealing to the highestemotions of the human heart, and compelling the editorial breast to thenoblest commendation in the editorial pages, was singularly inadequateto defray the expenses of herself and Carry. Then she tried the stage,but failed signally. Possibly her conception of the passions wasdifferent from that which obtained with a Sacramento audience; but itwas certain that her charming presence, so effective at short range, wasnot sufficiently pronounced for the footlights. She had admirers enoughin the green-room, but awakened no abiding affection among the audience.In this strait, it occurred to her that she had a voice,--a contralto ofno very great compass or cultivation, but singularly sweet and touching;and she finally obtained position in a church-choir. She held it forthree months, greatly to her pecuniary advantage, and, it is said, muchto the satisfaction of the gentlemen in the back-pews, who faced towardher during the singing of the last hymn.

  I remember her quite distinctly at this time. The light that slantedthrough the oriel of St. Dives choir was wont to fall very tenderly onher beautiful head with its stacked masses of deerskin-colored hair, onthe low black arches of her brows, and to deepen the pretty fringesthat shaded her eyes of Genoa velvet. Very pleasant it was to watchthe opening and shutting of that small straight mouth, with its quickrevelation of little white teeth, and to see the foolish blood faintlydeepen her satin cheek as you watched. For Mrs. Tretherick was verysweetly conscious of admiration, and, like most pretty women, gatheredherself under your eye like a racer under the spur.

  And then, of course, there came trouble. I have it from the soprano,--alittle lady who possessed even more than the usual unprejudiced judgmentof her sex,--that Mrs. Tretherick's conduct was simply shameful; thather conceit was unbearable; that, if she considered the rest of thechoir as slaves, she (the soprano) would like to know it; that herconduct on Easter Sunday with the basso had attracted the attention ofthe whole congregation; and that she herself had noticed Dr. Copetwice look up during the service; that her (the soprano's) friends hadobjected to her singing in the choir with a person who had been on thestage, but she had waived this. Yet she had it from the best authoritythat Mrs. Tretherick had run away from her husband, and that thisred-haired child who sometimes came in the choir was not her own. Thetenor confided to me behind the organ, that Mrs. Tretherick had a wayof sustaining a note at the end of a line in order that her voice mightlinger longer with the congregation,--an act that could be attributedonly to a defective moral nature; that as a man (he was a very populardry-goods clerk on week-days, and sang a good deal from apparentlybehind his eyebrows on the sabbath)--that as a man, sir, he would put upwith it no longer. The basso alone--a short German with a heavy voice,for which he seemed reluctantly responsible, and rather grieved at itspossession--stood up for Mrs. Tretherick, and averred that they werejealous of her because she was "bretty." The climax was at last reachedin an open quarrel, wherein Mrs. Tretherick used her tongue withsuch precision of statement and epithet, that the soprano burst intohysterical tears, and had to be supported from the choir by her husbandand the tenor. This act was marked intentionally to the congregationby the omission of the usual soprano solo. Mrs. Tretherick went homeflushed with triumph, but on reaching her room frantically told Carrythat they were beggars henceforward; that she--her mother--had justtaken the very bread out of her darling's mouth, and ended by burstinginto a flood of penitent tears. They did not come so quickly as in herold poetical days; but when they came they stung deeply. She was rousedby a formal visit from a vestryman,--one of the music committee. Mrs.Tretherick dried her long lashes, put on a new neck-ribbon, and wentdown to the parlor. She staid there two hours,--a fact that might haveoccasioned some remark, but that the vestryman was married, and had afamily of grown-up daughters. When Mrs. Tretherick returned to her room,she sang to herself in the glass and scolded Carry--but she retained herplace in the choir.

  It was not long, however. In due course of time, her enemies received apowerful addition to their forces in the committee-man's wife. That ladycalled upon several of the church-members and on Dr. Cope's family.The result was, that, at a later meeting of the music committee, Mrs.Tretherick's voice was declared inadequate to the size of the buildingand she was invited to resign. She did so. She had been out of asituation for two months, and her scant means were almost exhausted,when Ah Fe's unexpected treasure was tossed into her lap.

  The gray fog deepened into night, and the street-lamps started intoshivering life, as, absorbed in these unprofitable memories, Mrs.Tretherick still sat drearily at her window. Even Carry had slipped awayunnoticed; and her abrupt entrance with the damp evening paper inher hand roused Mrs. Tretherick, and brought her back to an activerealization of the present. For Mrs. Tretherick was wont to scanthe advertisements in the faint hope of finding some avenue ofemployment--she knew not what--open to her needs; and Carry had notedthis habit.

  Mrs. Tretherick mechanically closed the shutters, lit the lights, andopened the paper. Her eye fell instinctively on the following paragraphin the telegraphic column:--

  "FIDDLETOWN, 7th.--Mr. James Tretherick, an old resident of this place,died last night of delirium tremens. Mr. Tretherick was addicted tointemperate habits, said to have been induced by domestic trouble."

  Mrs. Tretherick did not start. She quietly turned over another page ofthe paper, and glanced at Carry. The child was absorbed in a book. Mrs.Tretherick uttered no word, but, during the remainder of the evening,was unusually silent and cold. When Carry was undressed and in bed, Mrs.Tretherick suddenly dropped on her knees beside the bed, and, takingCarry's flaming head between her hands, said,--

  "Should you like to have another papa, Carry darling?"

  "No," said Carry, after a moment's thought.

  "But a papa to help mamma take care of you, to love you, to give younice clothes, to make a lady of you when you grow up?"

  Carry turned her sleepy eyes toward the questioner. "Should YOU, mamma?"

  Mrs. Tretherick suddenly flushed to the roots of her hair. "Go tosleep," she said sharply, and turned away.

  But at midnight the child felt two white arms close tightly around her,and was drawn down into a bosom that heaved, fluttered, and at last wasbroken up by sobs.

  "Don't ky, mamma," whispered Carry, with a vague retrospect of theirrecent conversation. "Don't ky. I fink I SHOULD like a new papa, if heloved you very much--very, very much!"

  A month afterward, to everybody's astonishment, Mrs. Tretherick wasmarried. The happy bridegroom was one Col. Starbottle, recently electedto represent Calaveras County in the legislative councils of the State.As I cannot record the event in finer language than that used by thecorrespondent of "The Sacramento Globe," I venture to quote some of hisgraceful periods. "The relentless shafts of the sly god have been latelybusy among our gallant Solons. We quote 'one more unfortunate.'The latest victim is the Hon. C. Starbottle of Calaveras. The fairenchantress in the case is a beautiful widow, a former votary ofThespis, and lately a fascinating St. Cecilia of one of the mostfashionable churches of San Francisco, where she commanded a highsalary."

  "The Dutch Flat Intelligencer" saw fit, however, to comment upon thefact with that humorous freedom characteristic of an unfettered press."The new Democratic war-horse from Calaveras has lately advented inthe legislature with a little bill to change the name of Tretherickto Starbottle. They call it a marriage-certificate down there. Mr.Tretherick has been dead just one month; but we presume the gallantcolonel is not afraid of ghosts." It is but just to Mrs. Tretherickto state that the colonel's victory was by no means an easy one. Toa natural degree of coyness on the part of the lady was added theimpediment of a rival,--a prosperous undertaker from Sacramento, whohad first seen and loved Mrs. Tretherick at the theatre and church; hisprofessional habits debarring him from ordinary social intercourse, andindeed any other than the most formal public contact with the sex. Asthis gentleman had made a snug fortune during the felicitous prevalenceof a severe epidemic, the colonel regarded him as a dangerous r
ival.Fortunately, however, the undertaker was called in professionally to layout a brother-senator, who had unhappily fallen by the colonel's pistolin an affair of honor; and either deterred by physical considerationfrom rivalry, or wisely concluding that the colonel was professionallyvaluable, he withdrew from the field.

  The honeymoon was brief, and brought to a close by an untoward incident.During their bridal-trip, Carry had been placed in the charge ofCol. Starbottle's sister. On their return to the city, immediately onreaching their lodgings, Mrs. Starbottle announced her intention ofat once proceeding to Mrs. Culpepper's to bring the child home. Col.Starbottle, who had been exhibiting for some time a certain uneasinesswhich he had endeavored to overcome by repeated stimulation, finallybuttoned his coat tightly across his breast, and, after walkingunsteadily once or twice up and down the room, suddenly faced his wifewith his most imposing manner.

  "I have deferred," said the colonel with an exaggeration of port thatincreased with his inward fear, and a growing thickness of speech,--"Ihave deferr--I may say poshponed statement o' fack thash my duty terdishclose ter ye. I did no wish to mar sushine mushal happ'ness, tobligh bud o' promise, to darken conjuglar sky by unpleasht revelashun.Musht be done--by G-d, m'm, musht do it now. The chile is gone!"

  "Gone!" echoed Mrs. Starbottle.

  There was something in the tone of her voice, in the suddendrawing-together of the pupils of her eyes, that for a moment nearlysobered the colonel, and partly collapsed his chest.

  "I'll splain all in a minit," he said with a deprecating wave of thehand. "Every thing shall be splained. The-the-the-melencholly eventwish preshipitate our happ'ness--the myster'us prov'nice wish releashyou--releash chile! hunerstan?--releash chile. The mom't Tretherickdie--all claim you have in chile through him--die too. Thash law. Whosechile b'long to? Tretherick? Tretherick dead. Chile can't b'long deadman. Damn nonshense b'long dead man. I'sh your chile? no! who's chilethen? Chile b'long to 'ts mother. Unnerstan?"

  "Where is she?" said Mrs. Starbottle with a very white face and a verylow voice.

  "I'll splain all. Chile b'long to 'ts mother. Thash law. I'm lawyer,leshlator, and American sis'n. Ish my duty as lawyer, as leshlator, and'merikan sis'n to reshtore chile to suff'rin mother at any coss--anycoss."

  "Where is she?" repeated Mrs. Starbottle with her eyes still fixed onthe colonel's face.

  "Gone to 'ts m'o'r. Gone East on shteamer, yesserday. Waffed by fav'ringales to suff'rin p'rent. Thash so!"

  Mrs. Starbottle did not move. The colonel felt his chest slowlycollapsing, but steadied himself against a chair, and endeavored to beamwith chivalrous gallantry not unmixed with magisterial firmness upon heras she sat.

  "Your feelin's, m'm, do honor to yer sex, but conshider situashun.Conshider m'or's feelings--conshider MY feelin's." The colonel paused,and, flourishing a white handkerchief, placed it negligently in hisbreast, and then smiled tenderly above it, as over laces and ruffles, onthe woman before him. "Why should dark shedder cass bligh on two sholeswith single beat? Chile's fine chile, good chile, but summonelse chile!Chile's gone, Clar'; but all ish'n't gone, Clar'. Conshider dearesht,you all's have me!"

  Mrs. Starbottle started to her feet. "YOU!" she cried, bringing out achest note that made the chandeliers ring,--"you that I married to givemy darling food and clothes,--YOU! a dog that I whistled to my side tokeep the men off me,--YOU!"

  She choked up, and then dashed past him into the inner room, which hadbeen Carry's; then she swept by him again into her own bedroom, and thensuddenly re-appeared before him, erect, menacing, with a burning fireover her cheek-bones, a quick straightening of her arched brows andmouth, a squaring of jaw, and ophidian flattening of the head.

  "Listen!" she said in a hoarse, half-grown boy's voice. "Hear me! Ifyou ever expect to set eyes on me again, you must find the child. If youever expect to speak to me again, to touch me, you must bring her back.For where she goes, I go: you hear me! Where she has gone, look for me."

  She struck out past him again with a quick feminine throwing-out of herarms from the elbows down, as if freeing herself from some imaginarybonds, and, dashing into her chamber, slammed and locked the door. Col.Starbottle, although no coward, stood in superstitious fear of an angrywoman, and, recoiling as she swept by, lost his unsteady foothold,and rolled helplessly on the sofa. Here, after one or two unsuccessfulattempts to regain his foothold, he remained, uttering from time to timeprofane but not entirely coherent or intelligible protests, until atlast he succumbed to the exhausting quality of his emotions, and thenarcotic quantity of his potations.

  Meantime, within, Mrs. Starbottle was excitedly gathering her valuables,and packing her trunk, even as she had done once before in the courseof this remarkable history. Perhaps some recollection of this was in hermind; for she stopped to lean her burning cheeks upon her hand, as ifshe saw again the figure of the child standing in the doorway, and heardonce more a childish voice asking, "Is it mamma?" But the epithet nowstung her to the quick and with a quick, passionate gesture she dashedit away with a tear that had gathered in her eye. And then it chanced,that, in turning over some clothes, she came upon the child's slipperwith a broken sandal-string. She uttered a great cry here,--the firstshe had uttered,--and caught it to her breast, kissing it passionatelyagain and again, and rocking from side to side with a motion peculiarto her sex. And then she took it to the window, the better to see itthrough her now streaming eyes. Here she was taken with a sudden fit ofcoughing that she could not stifle with the handkerchief she put to herfeverish lips. And then she suddenly grew very faint. The windowseemed to recede before her, the floor to sink beneath her feet; and,staggering to the bed, she fell prone upon it with the sandal andhandkerchief pressed to her breast. Her face was quite pale, the orbitof her eyes dark; and there was a spot upon her lip, another on herhandkerchief, and still another on the white counterpane of the bed.

  The wind had risen, rattling the window-sashes, and swaying the whitecurtains in a ghostly way. Later, a gray fog stole softly over theroofs, soothing the wind-roughened surfaces, and inwrapping all thingsin an uncertain light and a measureless peace. She lay there veryquiet--for all her troubles, still a very pretty bride. And on theother side of the bolted door the gallant bridegroom, from his temporarycouch, snored peacefully.

  A week before Christmas Day, 1870, the little town of Genoa, in theState of New York, exhibited, perhaps more strongly than at anyother time, the bitter irony of its founders and sponsors. A drivingsnow-storm, that had whitened every windward hedge, bush, wall, andtelegraph-pole, played around this soft Italian Capitol, whirled in andout of the great staring wooden Doric columns of its post-officeand hotel, beat upon the cold green shutters of its best houses, andpowdered the angular, stiff, dark figures in its streets. From thelevel of the street, the four principal churches of the town stood outstarkly, even while their misshapen spires were kindly hidden in thelow, driving storm. Near the railroad-station, the new Methodist chapel,whose resemblance to an enormous locomotive was further heightened bythe addition of a pyramidal row of front-steps, like a cowcatcher, stoodas if waiting for a few more houses to be hitched on to proceed to apleasanter location. But the pride of Genoa--the great Crammer Institutefor Young Ladies--stretched its bare brick length, and reared its cupolaplainly from the bleak Parnassian hill above the principal avenue. Therewas no evasion in the Crammer Institute of the fact that it was a publicinstitution. A visitor upon its doorsteps, a pretty face at its window,were clearly visible all over the township.

  The shriek of the engine of the four-o'clock Northern express broughtbut few of the usual loungers to the depot. Only a single passengeralighted, and was driven away in the solitary waiting sleigh toward theGenoa Hotel. And then the train sped away again, with thatpassionless indifference to human sympathies or curiosity peculiarto express-trains; the one baggage-truck was wheeled into the stationagain; the station-door was locked; and the station-master went home.

  The locomotive-whistle, however, awakened the guilty
consciousnessof three young ladies of the Crammer Institute, who were eventhen surreptitiously regaling themselves in the bake-shop andconfectionery-saloon of Mistress Phillips in a by-lane. For even theadmirable regulations of the Institute failed to entirely developthe physical and moral natures of its pupils. They conformed tothe excellent dietary rules in public, and in private drew upon theluxurious rations of their village caterer. They attended church withexemplary formality, and flirted informally during service with thevillage beaux. They received the best and most judicious instructionduring school-hours, and devoured the trashiest novels during recess.The result of which was an aggregation of quite healthy, quite human,and very charming young creatures, that reflected infinite credit onthe Institute. Even Mistress Phillips, to whom they owed vast sums,exhilarated by the exuberant spirits and youthful freshness of herguests, declared that the sight of "them young things" did her good; andhad even been known to shield them by shameless equivocation.

  "Four o'clock, girls! and, if we're not back to prayers by five, we'llbe missed," said the tallest of these foolish virgins, with an aquilinenose, and certain quiet elan that bespoke the leader, as she rosefrom her seat. "Have you got the books, Addy?" Addy displayed threedissipated-looking novels under her waterproof. "And the provisions,Carry?" Carry showed a suspicious parcel filling the pocket of her sack."All right, then. Come girls, trudge.--Charge it," she added, nodding toher host as they passed toward the door. "I'll pay you when my quarter'sallowance comes."

  "No, Kate," interposed Carry, producing her purse, "let me pay: it's myturn."

  "Never!" said Kate, arching her black brows loftily, "even if youdo have rich relatives, and regular remittances from California.Never!--Come, girls, forward, march!"

  As they opened the door, a gust of wind nearly took them off their feet.Kind-hearted Mrs. Phillips was alarmed. "Sakes alive, galls! ye mussn'tgo out in sich weather. Better let me send word to the Institoot, andmake ye up a nice bed to-night in my parlor." But the last sentence waslost in a chorus of half-suppressed shrieks, as the girls, hand in hand,ran down the steps into the storm, and were at once whirled away.

  The short December day, unlit by any sunset glow, was failing fast. Itwas quite dark already; and the air was thick with driving snow. Forsome distance their high spirits, youth, and even inexperience, keptthem bravely up; but, in ambitiously attempting a short-cut from thehigh-road across an open field, their strength gave out, the laugh grewless frequent, and tears began to stand in Carry's brown eyes. When theyreached the road again, they were utterly exhausted. "Let us go back,"said Carry.

  "We'd never get across that field again," said Addy.

  "Let's stop at the first house, then," said Carry.

  "The first house," said Addy, peering through the gathering darkness,"is Squire Robinson's." She darted a mischievous glance at Carry, that,even in her discomfort and fear, brought the quick blood to her cheek.

  "Oh, yes!" said Kate with gloomy irony, "certainly; stop at the squire'sby all means, and be invited to tea, and be driven home after tea byyour dear friend Mr. Harry, with a formal apology from Mrs. Robinson,and hopes that the young ladies may be excused this time. No!" continuedKate with sudden energy. "That may suit YOU; but I'm going back as Icame,--by the window, or not at all." Then she pounced suddenly, like ahawk, on Carry, who was betraying a tendency to sit down on a snowbank,and whimper, and shook her briskly. "You'll be going to sleep next.Stay, hold your tongues, all of you,--what's that?"

  It was the sound of sleigh-bells. Coming down toward them out of thedarkness was a sleigh with a single occupant. "Hold down your heads,girls: if it's anybody that knows us, we're lost." But it was not; for avoice strange to their ears, but withal very kindly and pleasant, askedif its owner could be of any help to them. As they turned toward him,they saw it was a man wrapped in a handsome sealskin cloak, wearinga sealskin cap; his face, half concealed by a muffler of the samematerial, disclosing only a pair of long mustaches, and two keendark eyes. "It's a son of old Santa Claus!" whispered Addy. The girlstittered audibly as they tumbled into the sleigh: they had regainedtheir former spirits. "Where shall I take you?" said the strangerquietly. There was a hurried whispering; and then Kate said boldly, "Tothe Institute." They drove silently up the hill, until the long, asceticbuilding loomed up before them. The stranger reined up suddenly. "Youknow the way better than I," he said. "Where do you go in?"--"Throughthe back-window," said Kate with sudden and appalling frankness. "Isee!" responded their strange driver quietly, and, alighting quickly,removed the bells from the horses. "We can drive as near as you pleasenow," he added by way of explanation. "He certainly is a son of SantaClaus," whispered Addy. "Hadn't we better ask after his father?" "Hush!"said Kate decidedly. "He is an angel, I dare say." She added with adelicious irrelevance, which was, however, perfectly understood by herfeminine auditors, "We are looking like three frights."

  Cautiously skirting the fences, they at last pulled up a few feet froma dark wall. The stranger proceeded to assist them to alight. There wasstill some light from the reflected snow; and, as he handed his faircompanions to the ground, each was conscious of undergoing an intensethough respectful scrutiny. He assisted them gravely to open the window,and then discreetly retired to the sleigh until the difficult andsomewhat discomposing ingress was made. He then walked to the window,"Thank you and good-night!" whispered three voices. A single figurestill lingered. The stranger leaned over the window-sill. "Will youpermit me to light my cigar here? it might attract attention if I strucka match outside." By the upspringing light he saw the figure of Katevery charmingly framed in by the window. The match burnt slowly outin his fingers. Kate smiled mischievously. The astute young woman haddetected the pitiable subterfuge. For what else did she stand at thehead of her class, and had doting parents paid three years' tuition?

  The storm had passed, and the sun was shining quite cheerily in theeastern recitation-room the next morning, when Miss Kate, whose seatwas nearest the window, placing her hand pathetically upon her heart,affected to fall in bashful and extreme agitation upon the shoulder ofCarry her neighbor. "HE has come," she gasped in a thrilling whisper."Who?" asked Carry sympathetically, who never clearly under stood whenKate was in earnest. "Who?--why, the man who rescued us last night! Isaw him drive to the door this moment. Don't speak: I shall be better ina moment--there!" she said; and the shameless hypocrite passed her handpathetically across her forehead with a tragic air.

  "What can he want?" asked Carry, whose curiosity was excited.

  "I don't know," said Kate, suddenly relapsing into gloomy cynicism."Possibly to put his five daughters to school; perhaps to finish hisyoung wife, and warn her against us."

  "He didn't look old, and he didn't seem like a married man," rejoinedAddy thoughtfully.

  "That was his art, you poor creature!" returned Kate scornfully. "Youcan never tell any thing of these men, they are so deceitful Besides,it's just my fate!"

  "Why, Kate," began Carry, in serious concern.

  "Hush! Miss Walker is saying something," said Kate, laughing.

  "The young ladies will please give attention," said a slow, perfunctoryvoice. "Miss Carry Tretherick is wanted in the parlor."

  Meantime Mr. Jack Prince, the name given on the card, and variousletters and credentials submitted to the Rev. Mr. Crammer, paced thesomewhat severe apartment known publicly as the "reception parlor," andprivately to the pupils as "purgatory." His keen eyes had taken in thevarious rigid details, from the flat steam "radiator," like anenormous japanned soda-cracker, that heated one end of the room, to themonumental bust of Dr. Crammer, that hopelessly chilled the other;from the Lord's Prayer, executed by a former writing-master in suchgratuitous variety of elegant calligraphic trifling as to considerablyabate the serious value of the composition, to three views of Genoa fromthe Institute, which nobody ever recognized, taken on the spot by thedrawing-teacher; from two illuminated texts of Scripture in an EnglishLetter, so gratuitously and hideously remote as to chill all humanin
terest, to a large photograph of the senior class, in which theprettiest girls were Ethiopian in complexion, and sat, apparently, oneach other's heads and shoulders. His fingers had turned listlessly theleaves of school-catalogues, the "Sermons" of Dr. Crammer, the "Poems"of Henry Kirke White, the "Lays of the Sanctuary" and "Lives ofCelebrated Women." His fancy, and it was a nervously active one, hadgone over the partings and greetings that must have taken place here,and wondered why the apartment had yet caught so little of the flavor ofhumanity; indeed, I am afraid he had almost forgotten the object of hisvisit, when the door opened, and Carry Tretherick stood before him.

  It was one of those faces he had seen the night before, prettier eventhan it had seemed then; and yet I think he was conscious of somedisappointment, without knowing exactly why. Her abundant waving hairwas of a guinea-golden tint, her complexion of a peculiar flower-likedelicacy, her brown eyes of the color of seaweed in deep water. Itcertainly was not her beauty that disappointed him.

  Without possessing his sensitiveness to impression, Carry was, on herpart, quite as vaguely ill at ease. She saw before her one of those menwhom the sex would vaguely generalize as "nice," that is to say,correct in all the superficial appointments of style, dress, manners andfeature. Yet there was a decidedly unconventional quality about him: hewas totally unlike any thing or anybody that she could remember; and,as the attributes of originality are often as apt to alarm as to attractpeople, she was not entirely prepossessed in his favor.

  "I can hardly hope," he began pleasantly, "that you remember me. It iseleven years ago, and you were a very little girl. I am afraid I cannoteven claim to have enjoyed that familiarity that might exist between achild of six and a young man of twenty-one. I don't think I was fondof children. But I knew your mother very well. I was editor of 'TheAvalanche' in Fiddletown, when she took you to San Francisco."

  "You mean my stepmother: she wasn't my mother, you know," interposedCarry hastily.

  Mr. Prince looked at her curiously. "I mean your stepmother," he saidgravely. "I never had the pleasure of meeting your mother."

  "No: MOTHER hasn't been in California these twelve years."

  There was an intentional emphasizing of the title and of itsdistinction, that began to coldly interest Prince after his firstastonishment was past.

  "As I come from your stepmother now," he went on with a slight laugh,"I must ask you to go back for a few moments to that point. After yourfather's death, your mother--I mean your stepmother--recognized the factthat your mother, the first Mrs. Tretherick, was legally and morallyyour guardian, and, although much against her inclination andaffections, placed you again in her charge."

  "My stepmother married again within a month after father died, and sentme home," said Carry with great directness, and the faintest toss of herhead.

  Mr. Prince smiled so sweetly, and apparently so sympathetically, thatCarry began to like him. With no other notice of the interruptionhe went on, "After your stepmother had performed this act of simplejustice, she entered into an agreement with your mother to defray theexpenses of your education until your eighteenth year, when you were toelect and choose which of the two should thereafter be your guardian,and with whom you would make your home. This agreement, I think, you arealready aware of, and, I believe, knew at the time."

  "I was a mere child then," said Carry.

  "Certainly," said Mr. Prince, with the same smile. "Still theconditions, I think, have never been oppressive to you nor your mother;and the only time they are likely to give you the least uneasiness willbe when you come to make up your mind in the choice of your guardian.That will be on your eighteenth birthday,--the 20th, I think, of thepresent month."

  Carry was silent.

  "Pray do not think that I am here to receive your decision, even if itbe already made. I only came to inform you that your stepmother, Mrs.Starbottle, will be in town to-morrow, and will pass a few days at thehotel. If it is your wish to see her before you make up your mind, shewill be glad to meet you. She does not, however, wish to do any thing toinfluence your judgment."

  "Does mother know she is coming?" said Carry hastily.

  "I do not know," said Prince gravely. "I only know, that, if youconclude to see Mrs. Starbottle, it will be with your mother'spermission. Mrs. Starbottle will keep sacredly this part of theagreement, made ten years ago. But her health is very poor; and thechange and country quiet of a few days may benefit her." Mr. Prince benthis keen, bright eyes upon the young girl, and almost held his breathuntil she spoke again.

  "Mother's coming up to-day or to-morrow," she said, looking up.

  "Ah!" said Mr. Prince with a sweet and languid smile.

  "Is Col. Starbottle here too?" asked Carry, after a pause.

  "Col. Starbottle is dead. Your stepmother is again a widow."

  "Dead!" repeated Carry.

  "Yes," replied Mr. Prince. "Your step-mother has been singularlyunfortunate in surviving her affections."

  Carry did not know what he meant, and looked so. Mr. Prince smiledre-assuringly.

  Presently Carry began to whimper.

  Mr. Prince softly stepped beside her chair.

  "I am afraid," he said with a very peculiar light in his eye, and asingular dropping of the corners of his mustache,--"I am afraid you aretaking this too deeply. It will be some days before you are called uponto make a decision. Let us talk of something else. I hope you caught nocold last evening."

  Carry's face shone out again in dimples.

  "You must have thought us so queer! It was too bad to give you so muchtrouble."

  "None, whatever, I assure you. My sense of propriety," he addeddemurely, "which might have been outraged, had I been called upon tohelp three young ladies out of a schoolroom window at night, was deeplygratified at being able to assist them in again." The door-bell rangloudly, and Mr. Prince rose. "Take your own time, and think well beforeyou make your decision." But Carry's ear and attention were given tothe sound of voices in the hall. At the same moment, the door was thrownopen, and a servant announced, "Mrs. Tretherick and Mr. Robinson."

  The afternoon train had just shrieked out its usual indignant protestat stopping at Genoa at all, as Mr. Jack Prince entered the outskirtsof the town, and drove towards his hotel. He was wearied and cynical.A drive of a dozen miles through unpicturesque outlying villages,past small economic farmhouses, and hideous villas that violated hisfastidious taste, had, I fear, left that gentleman in a captious stateof mind. He would have even avoided his taciturn landlord as he drove upto the door; but that functionary waylaid him on the steps. "There's alady in the sittin'-room, waitin' for ye." Mr. Prince hurried up stairs,and entered the room as Mrs. Starbottle flew towards him.

  She had changed sadly in the last ten years. Her figure was wastedto half its size. The beautiful curves of her bust and shoulders werebroken or inverted. The once full, rounded arm was shrunken in itssleeve; and the golden hoops that encircled her wan wrists almostslipped from her hands as her long, scant fingers closed convulsivelyaround Jack's. Her cheek-bones were painted that afternoon with thehectic of fever: somewhere in the hollows of those cheeks were buriedthe dimples of long ago; but their graves were forgotten. Her lustrouseyes were still beautiful, though the orbits were deeper than before.Her mouth was still sweet, although the lips parted more easily over thelittle teeth, and even in breathing, and showed more of them than shewas wont to do before. The glory of her blonde hair was still left: itwas finer, more silken and ethereal, yet it failed even in its plenitudeto cover the hollows of the blue-veined temples.

  "Clara!" said Jack reproachfully.

  "Oh, forgive me, Jack!" she said, falling into a chair, but stillclinging to his hand, "forgive me, dear; but I could not wait longer.I should have died, Jack,--died before another night. Bear with me alittle longer (it will not be long), but let me stay. I may not see her,I know; I shall not speak to her: but it's so sweet to feel that I am atlast near her, that I breathe the same air with my darling. I am betteralready, Jack, I am ind
eed. And you have seen her to-day? How didshe look? What did she say? Tell me all, every thing, Jack. Was shebeautiful? They say she is. Has she grown? Would you have known heragain? Will she come, Jack? Perhaps she has been here already; perhaps,"she had risen with tremulous excitement, and was glancing at thedoor,--"perhaps she is here now. Why don't you speak, Jack? Tell meall."

  The keen eyes that looked down into hers were glistening with aninfinite tenderness that none, perhaps, but she would have deemed themcapable of. "Clara," he said gently and cheerily, "try and composeyourself. You are trembling now with the fatigue and excitement of yourjourney. I have seen Carry: she is well and beautiful. Let that sufficeyou now."

  His gentle firmness composed and calmed her now, as it had often donebefore. Stroking her thin hand, he said, after a pause, "Did Carry everwrite to you?"

  "Twice, thanking me for some presents. They were only school-girlletters," she added, nervously answering the interrogation of his eyes.

  "Did she ever know of your own troubles? of your poverty, of thesacrifices you made to pay her bills, of your pawning your clothes andjewels, of your"--

  "No, no!" interrupted the woman quickly: "no! How could she? I have noenemy cruel enough to tell her that."

  "But if she--or if Mrs. Tretherick--had heard of it? If Carry thoughtyou were poor, and unable to support her properly, it might influenceher decision. Young girls are fond of the position that wealth can give.She may have rich friends, maybe a lover."

  Mrs. Starbottle winced at the last sentence. "But," she said eagerly,grasping Jack's hand, "when you found me sick and helpless atSacramento, when you--God bless you for it, Jack!--offered to help me tothe East, you said you knew of something, you had some plan, that wouldmake me and Carry independent."

  "Yes," said Jack hastily; "but I want you to get strong and well first.And, now that you are calmer, you shall listen to my visit to theschool."

  It was then that Mr. Jack Prince proceeded to describe the interviewalready recorded, with a singular felicity and discretion that shamesmy own account of that proceeding. Without suppressing a single fact,without omitting a word or detail, he yet managed to throw a poetic veilover that prosaic episode, to invest the heroine with a romantic roseateatmosphere, which, though not perhaps entirely imaginary, still, I fear,exhibited that genius which ten years ago had made the columns of "TheFiddletown Avalanche" at once fascinating and instructive. It was notuntil he saw the heightening color, and heard the quick breathing, ofhis eager listener, that he felt a pang of self-reproach. "God help herand forgive me!" he muttered between his clinched teeth, "but how can Itell her ALL now!"

  That night, when Mrs. Starbottle laid her weary head upon her pillow,she tried to picture to herself Carry at the same moment sleepingpeacefully in the great schoolhouse on the hill; and it was a rarecomfort to this yearning, foolish woman to know that she was so near.But at this moment Carry was sitting on the edge of her bed, halfundressed, pouting her pretty lips, and twisting her long, leonine locksbetween her fingers, as Miss Kate Van Corlear--dramatically wrapped in along white counterpane, her black eyes sparkling, and her thorough-brednose thrown high in air,--stood over her like a wrathful and indignantghost; for Carry had that evening imparted her woes and her history toMiss Kate, and that young lady had "proved herself no friend" by fallinginto a state of fiery indignation over Carry's "ingratitude," and openlyand shamelessly espousing the claims of Mrs. Starbottle. "Why, if thehalf you tell me is true, your mother and those Robinsons are making ofyou not only a little coward, but a little snob, miss. Respectability,forsooth! Look you, my family are centuries before the Trethericks; butif my family had ever treated me in this way, and then asked me to turnmy back on my best friend, I'd whistle them down the wind;" and hereKate snapped her fingers, bent her black brows, and glared around theroom as if in search of a recreant Van Corlear.

  "You just talk this way, because you have taken a fancy to that Mr.Prince," said Carry.

  In the debasing slang of the period, that had even found its wayinto the virgin cloisters of the Crammer Institute, Miss Kate, as sheafterwards expressed it, instantly "went for her."

  First, with a shake of her head, she threw her long black hair over oneshoulder, then, dropping one end of the counterpane from the other likea vestal tunic, she stepped before Carry with a purposely-exaggeratedclassic stride. "And what if I have, miss! What if I happen to knowa gentleman when I see him! What if I happen to know, that among athousand such traditional, conventional, feeble editions of theirgrandfathers as Mr. Harry Robinson, you cannot find one original,independent, individualized gentleman like your Prince! Go to bed, miss,and pray to Heaven that he may be YOUR Prince indeed. Ask to have acontrite and grateful heart, and thank the Lord in particular for havingsent you such a friend as Kate Van Corlear." Yet, after an imposingdramatic exit, she re-appeared the next moment as a straight whiteflash, kissed Carry between the brows, and was gone.

  The next day was a weary one to Jack Prince. He was convinced in hismind that Carry would not come; yet to keep this consciousness fromMrs. Starbottle, to meet her simple hopefulness with an equal degree ofapparent faith, was a hard and difficult task. He would have tried todivert her mind by taking her on a long drive; but she was fearful thatCarry might come during her absence; and her strength, he was obliged toadmit, had failed greatly. As he looked into her large and awe-inspiringclear eyes, a something he tried to keep from his mind--to put off dayby day from contemplation--kept asserting itself directly to his innerconsciousness. He began to doubt the expediency and wisdom of hismanagement. He recalled every incident of his interview with Carry, andhalf believed that its failure was due to himself. Yet Mrs. Starbottlewas very patient and confident: her very confidence shook his faith inhis own judgment. When her strength was equal to the exertion, she waspropped up in her chair by the window, where she could see the schooland the entrance to the hotel. In the intervals she would elaboratepleasant plans for the future, and would sketch a country home. She hadtaken a strange fancy, as it seemed to Prince, to the present location;but it was notable that the future, always thus outlined, was one ofquiet and repose. She believed she would get well soon: in fact, shethought she was now much better than she had been; but it might be longbefore she should be quite strong again. She would whisper on in thisway until Jack would dash madly down into the bar-room, order liquorsthat he did not drink, light cigars that he did not smoke, talk with menthat he did not listen to, and behave generally as our stronger sex isapt to do in periods of delicate trials and perplexity.

  The day closed with a clouded sky and a bitter, searching wind. Withthe night fell a few wandering flakes of snow. She was still contentand hopeful; and, as Jack wheeled her from the window to the fire, sheexplained to him, how, that, as the school-term was drawing near itsclose, Carry was probably kept closely at her lessons during the day,and could only leave the school at night. So she sat up the greater partof the evening, and combed her silken hair, and, as far as her strengthwould allow, made an undress toilet to receive her guest. "We must notfrighten the child, Jack," she said apologetically, and with somethingof her old coquetry.

  It was with a feeling of relief, that, at ten o'clock, Jack received amessage from the landlord, saying that the doctor would like to seehim for a moment down stairs. As Jack entered the grim, dimly-lightedparlor, he observed the hooded figure of a woman near the fire. He wasabout to withdraw again, when a voice that he remembered very pleasantlysaid,--

  "Oh, it's all right! I'm the doctor."

  The hood was thrown back; and Prince saw the shining black hair, andblack, audacious eyes, of Kate Van Corlear.

  "Don't ask any questions. I'm the doctor and there's my prescription,"and she pointed to the half-frightened, half-sobbing Carry in thecorner--"to be taken at once."

  "Then Mrs. Tretherick has given her permission?"

  "Not much, if I know the sentiments of that lady," replied Kate saucily.

  "Then how did you get away?" asked Prince grave
ly.

  "BY THE WINDOW."

  When Mr. Prince had left Carry in the arms of her stepmother, hereturned to the parlor.

  "Well?" demanded Kate.

  "She will stay--YOU will, I hope, also--to-night."

  "As I shall not be eighteen, and my own mistress on the 20th, and as Ihaven't a sick stepmother, I won't."

  "Then you will give me the pleasure of seeing you safely through thewindow again?"

  When Mr. Prince returned an hour later, he found Carry sitting on a lowstool at Mrs. Starbottle's feet. Her head was in her stepmother's lap;and she had sobbed herself to sleep. Mrs. Starbottle put her fingerto her lip. "I told you she would come. God bless you, Jack! andgood-night."

  The next morning Mrs. Tretherick, indignant, the Rev. Asa Crammer,principal, injured, and Mr. Joel Robinson, sen., complacentlyrespectable, called upon Mr. Prince. There was a stormy meeting, endingin a demand for Carry. "We certainly cannot admit of this interference,"said Mrs. Tretherick, a fashionably dressed, indistinctive lookingwoman. "It is several days before the expiration of our agreement; andwe do not feel, under the circumstances, justified in releasingMrs. Starbottle from its conditions." "Until the expiration of theschool-term, we must consider Miss Tretherick as complying entirely withits rules and discipline," imposed Dr. Crammer. "The whole proceeding iscalculated to injure the prospects, and compromise the position, of MissTretherick in society," suggested Mr. Robinson.

  In vain Mr. Prince urged the failing condition of Mrs. Starbottle, herabsolute freedom from complicity with Carry's flight, the pardonableand natural instincts of the girl, and his own assurance that they werewilling to abide by her decision. And then with a rising color in hischeek, a dangerous look in his eye, but a singular calmness in hisspeech, he added,--

  "One word more. It becomes my duty to inform you of a circumstance whichwould certainly justify me, as an executor of the late Mr. Tretherick,in fully resisting your demands. A few months after Mr. Tretherick'sdeath, through the agency of a Chinaman in his employment, it wasdiscovered that he had made a will, which was subsequently found amonghis papers. The insignificant value of his bequest--mostly land, thenquite valueless--prevented his executors from carrying out his wishes,or from even proving the will, or making it otherwise publicly known,until within the last two or three years, when the property hadenormously increased in value. The provisions of that bequest aresimple, but unmistakable. The property is divided between Carry andher stepmother, with the explicit condition that Mrs. Starbottle shallbecome her legal guardian, provide for her education, and in all detailsstand to her in loco parentis."

  "What is the value of this bequest?" asked Mr. Robinson. "I cannottell exactly, but not far from half a million, I should say," returnedPrince. "Certainly, with this knowledge, as a friend of Miss Tretherick,I must say that her conduct is as judicious as it is honorable to her,"responded Mr. Robinson. "I shall not presume to question the wishes,or throw any obstacles in the way of carrying out the intentions, of mydead husband," added Mrs. Tretherick; and the interview was closed.

  When its result was made known to Mrs. Starbottle, she raised Jack'shand to her feverish lips. "It cannot add to MY happiness now, Jack; buttell me, why did you keep it from her?" Jack smiled, but did not reply.

  Within the next week the necessary legal formalities were concluded; andCarry was restored to her stepmother. At Mrs. Starbottle's request, asmall house in the outskirts of the town was procured; and thither theyremoved to wait the spring, and Mrs. Starbottle's convalescence. Bothcame tardily that year.

  Yet she was happy and patient. She was fond of watching the buddingof the trees beyond her window,--a novel sight to her Californianexperience,--and of asking Carry their names and seasons. Even at thistime she projected for that summer, which seemed to her so mysteriouslywithheld, long walks with Carry through the leafy woods, whose gray,misty ranks she could see along the hilltop. She even thought shecould write poetry about them, and recalled the fact as evidence of hergaining strength; and there is, I believe, still treasured by one of themembers of this little household a little carol so joyous, so simple,and so innocent, that it might have been an echo of the robin thatcalled to her from the window, as perhaps it was.

  And then, without warning, there dropped from Heaven a day so tender, somystically soft, so dreamily beautiful, so throbbing, and alive with thefluttering of invisible wings, so replete and bounteously overflowingwith an awakening and joyous resurrection not taught by man or limitedby creed, that they thought it fit to bring her out, and lay her in thatglorious sunshine that sprinkled like the droppings of a bridal torchthe happy lintels and doors. And there she lay beatified and calm.

  Wearied by watching, Carry had fallen asleep by her side; and Mrs.Starbottle's thin fingers lay like a benediction on her head. Presentlyshe called Jack to her side.

  "Who was that," she whispered, "who just came in?"

  "Miss Van Corlear," said Jack, answering the look in her great holloweyes.

  "Jack," she said, after a moment's silence, "sit by me a moment, dearJack: I've something I must say. If I ever seemed hard, or cold, orcoquettish to you in the old days, it was because I loved you, Jack, toowell to mar your future by linking it with my own. I always loved you,dear Jack, even when I seemed least worthy of you. That is gone now.But I had a dream lately, Jack, a foolish woman's dream,--that you mightfind what I lacked in HER," and she glanced lovingly at the sleepinggirl at her side; "that you might love her as you have loved me. Buteven that is not to be, Jack, is it?" and she glanced wistfully in hisface. Jack pressed her hand, but did not speak. After a few moments'silence, she again said, "Perhaps you are right in your choice. She is agood-hearted girl, Jack--but a little bold."

  And with this last flicker of foolish, weak humanity in her strugglingspirit, she spoke no more. When they came to her a moment later, a tinybird that had lit upon her breast flew away; and the hand that theylifted from Carry's head fell lifeless at her side.

  A JERSEY CENTENARIAN

  I have seen her at last. She is a hundred and seven years old, andremembers George Washington quite distinctly. It is somewhat confusing,however, that she also remembers a contemporaneous Josiah W. Perkins ofBasking Ridge, N. J., and, I think, has the impression that Perkins wasthe better man. Perkins, at the close of the last century, paid her somelittle attention. There are a few things that a really noble woman of ahundred and seven never forgets.

  It was Perkins, who said to her in 1795, in the streets of Philadelphia,"Shall I show thee Gen. Washington?" Then she said careless-like (foryou know, child, at that time it wasn't what it is now to see Gen.Washington), she said, "So do, Josiah, so do!" Then he pointed to atall man who got out of a carriage, and went into a large house. He waslarger than you be. He wore his own hair--not powdered; had aflowered chintz vest, with yellow breeches and blue stockings, and abroad-brimmed hat. In summer he wore a white straw hat, and at his farmat Basking Ridge he always wore it. At this point, it became too evidentthat she was describing the clothes of the all-fascinating Perkins: so Igently but firmly led her back to Washington. Then it appeared that shedid not remember exactly what he wore. To assist her, I sketched thegeneral historic dress of that period. She said she thought he wasdressed like that. Emboldened by my success, I added a hat of CharlesII., and pointed shoes of the eleventh century. She indorsed these withsuch cheerful alacrity, that I dropped the subject.

  The house upon which I had stumbled, or, rather, to which my horse--aJersey hack, accustomed to historic research--had brought me, waslow and quaint. Like most old houses, it had the appearance of beingencroached upon by the surrounding glebe, as if it were already half inthe grave, with a sod or two, in the shape of moss thrown on it, likeashes on ashes, and dust on dust. A wooden house, instead of acquiringdignity with age, is apt to lose its youth and respectability together.A porch, with scant, sloping seats, from which even the winter's snowmust have slid uncomfortably, projected from a doorway that opened mostunjustifiably into a small
sitting-room. There was no vestibule, orlocus poenitentiae, for the embarrassed or bashful visitor: he passedat once from the security of the public road into shameful privacy.And here, in the mellow autumnal sunlight, that, streaming through themaples and sumach on the opposite bank, flickered and danced upon thefloor, she sat and discoursed of George Washington, and thought ofPerkins. She was quite in keeping with the house and the season, albeita little in advance of both; her skin being of a faded russet, and herhands so like dead November leaves, that I fancied they even rustledwhen she moved them.

  For all that, she was quite bright and cheery; her faculties still quitevigorous, although performing irregularly and spasmodically. It wassomewhat discomposing, I confess, to observe, that at times her lowerjaw would drop, leaving her speechless, until one of the family wouldnotice it, and raise it smartly into place with a slight snap,--anoperation always performed in such an habitual, perfunctory manner,generally in passing to and fro in their household duties, that it wasvery trying to the spectator. It was still more embarrassing to observethat the dear old lady had evidently no knowledge of this, but believedshe was still talking, and that, on resuming her actual vocal utterance,she was often abrupt and incoherent, beginning always in the middle ofa sentence, and often in the middle of a word. "Sometimes," said herdaughter, a giddy, thoughtless young thing of eighty-five,--"sometimesjust moving her head sort of unhitches her jaw; and, if we don't happento see it, she'll go on talking for hours without ever making a sound."Although I was convinced, after this, that during my interview I hadlost several important revelations regarding George Washington throughthese peculiar lapses, I could not help reflecting how beneficent werethese provisions of the Creator,--how, if properly studied and applied,they might be fraught with happiness to mankind,--how a slight jostleor jar at a dinner-party might make the post-prandial eloquence ofgarrulous senility satisfactory to itself, yet harmless to others,--howa more intimate knowledge of anatomy, introduced into the domesticcircle, might make a home tolerable at least, if not happy,--how along-suffering husband, under the pretence of a conjugal caress,might so unhook his wife's condyloid process as to allow the flow ofexpostulation, criticism, or denunciation, to go on with gratificationto her, and perfect immunity to himself.

  But this was not getting back to George Washington and the earlystruggles of the Republic. So I returned to the commander-in-chief, butfound, after one or two leading questions, that she was rather inclinedto resent his re-appearance on the stage. Her reminiscences here werechiefly social and local, and more or less flavored with Perkins. We gotback as far as the Revolutionary epoch, or, rather, her impressions ofthat epoch, when it was still fresh in the public mind. And here I cameupon an incident, purely personal and local, but, withal, so novel,weird, and uncanny, that for a while I fear it quite displaced GeorgeWashington in my mind, and tinged the autumnal fields beyond with a redthat was not of the sumach. I do not remember to have read of it in thebooks. I do not know that it is entirely authentic. It was attested tome by mother and daughter, as an uncontradicted tradition.

  In the little field beyond, where the plough still turns up musket-ballsand cartridge-boxes, took place one of those irregular skirmishesbetween the militiamen and Knyphausen's stragglers, that made theretreat historical. A Hessian soldier, wounded in both legs and utterlyhelpless, dragged himself to the cover of a hazel-copse, and lay therehidden for two days. On the third day, maddened by thirst, he managedto creep to the rail-fence of an adjoining farm-house, but found himselfunable to mount it or pass through. There was no one in the house buta little girl of six or seven years. He called to her, and in a faintvoice asked for water. She returned to the house, as if to complywith his request, but, mounting a chair, took from the chimneya heavily-loaded Queen Anne musket, and, going to the door, tookdeliberate aim at the helpless intruder, and fired. The man fell backdead, without a groan. She replaced the musket, and, returning to thefence, covered the body with boughs and leaves, until it was hidden. Twoor three days after, she related the occurrence in a careless, casualway, and leading the way to the fence, with a piece of bread and butterin her guileless little fingers, pointed out the result of her simple,unsophisticated effort. The Hessian was decently buried, but I could notfind out what became of the little girl. Nobody seemed to remember. Itrust, that, in after-years, she was happily married; that no JerseyLovelace attempted to trifle with a heart whose impulses were so prompt,and whose purposes were so sincere. They did not seem to know if she hadmarried or not. Yet it does not seem probable that such simplicity ofconception, frankness of expression, and deftness of execution, werelost to posterity, or that they failed, in their time and season, togive flavor to the domestic felicity of the period. Beyond this,the story perhaps has little value, except as an offset to the usualanecdotes of Hessian atrocity.

  They had their financial panics even in Jersey, in the old days.She remembered when Dr. White married your cousin Mary--or was itSusan?--yes, it was Susan. She remembers that your Uncle Harry broughtin an armful of bank-notes,--paper money, you know,--and threw them inthe corner, saying they were no good to anybody. She remembered playingwith them, and giving them to your Aunt Anna--no, child, it was your ownmother, bless your heart! Some of them was marked as high as a hundreddollars. Everybody kept gold and silver in a stocking, or in a "chaney"vase, like that. You never used money to buy any thing. When Josiah wentto Springfield to buy any thing, he took a cartload of things with himto exchange. That yaller picture-frame was paid for in greenings. Butthen people knew jest what they had. They didn't fritter their substanceaway in unchristian trifles, like your father, Eliza Jane, who doesn'tknow that there is a God who will smite him hip and thigh; for vengeanceis mine, and those that believe in me. But here, singularly enough, theinferior maxillaries gave out, and her jaw dropped. (I noticed that hergiddy daughter of eighty-five was sitting near her; but I do not pretendto connect this fact with the arrested flow of personal disclosure.)Howbeit, when she recovered her speech again, it appeared that she wascomplaining of the weather.

  The seasons had changed very much since your father went to sea.The winters used to be terrible in those days. When she went over toSpringfield, in June, she saw the snow still on Watson's Ridge. Therewere whole days when you couldn't git over to William Henry's, theirnext neighbor, a quarter of a mile away. It was that drefful winter thatthe Spanish sailor was found. You don't remember the Spanish sailor,Eliza Jane--it was before your time. There was a little personalskirmishing here, which I feared, at first, might end in a suspension ofmaxillary functions, and the loss of the story; but here it is. Ah, me!it is a pure white winter idyl: how shall I sing it this bright, gayautumnal day?

  It was a terrible night, that winter's night, when she and the centurywere young together. The sun was lost at three o'clock: the snowy nightcame down like a white sheet, that flapped around the house, beat at thewindows with its edges, and at last wrapped it in a close embrace. Inthe middle of the night, they thought they heard above the wind a voicecrying, "Christus, Christus!" in a foreign tongue. They opened thedoor,--no easy task in the north wind that pressed its strong shouldersagainst it,--but nothing was to be seen but the drifting snow. The nextmorning dawned on fences hidden, and a landscape changed and obliteratedwith drift. During the day, they again heard the cry of "Christus!" thistime faint and hidden, like a child's voice. They searched in vain: thedrifted snow hid its secret. On the third day they broke a path to thefence, and then they heard the cry distinctly. Digging down, they foundthe body of a man,--a Spanish sailor, dark and bearded, with ear-ringsin his ears. As they stood gazing down at his cold and pulseless figure,the cry of "Christus!" again rose upon the wintry air; and they turnedand fled in superstitious terror to the house. And then one of thechildren, bolder than the rest, knelt down, and opened the dead man'srough pea-jacket, and found--what think you?--a little blue-and-greenparrot, nestling against his breast. It was the bird that had echoedmechanically the last despairing cry of the life that was given t
o saveit. It was the bird, that ever after, amid outlandish oaths and wildersailor-songs, that I fear often shocked the pure ears of its gentlemistress, and brought scandal into the Jerseys, still retained that oneweird and mournful cry.

  The sun meanwhile was sinking behind the steadfast range beyond, and Icould not help feeling that I must depart with my wants unsatisfied.I had brought away no historic fragment: I absolutely knew little ornothing new regarding George Washington. I had been addressed variouslyby the names of different members of the family who were dead andforgotten; I had stood for an hour in the past: yet I had not added tomy historical knowledge, nor the practical benefit of your readers. Ispoke once more of Washington, and she replied with a reminiscence ofPerkins.

  Stand forth, O Josiah W. Perkins of Basking Ridge, N. J. Thou wast oflittle account in thy life, I warrant; thou didst not even feel thegreatness of thy day and time; thou didst criticise thy superiors; thouwast small and narrow in thy ways; thy very name and grave are unknownand uncared for: but thou wast once kind to a woman who survived thee,and, lo! thy name is again spoken of men, and for a moment lifted upabove thy betters.

 

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