Little Bobtail

by Oliver Optic

  "Not in love—are you, Ned?" added Tom, straightening up, and looking full into the face of his friend. "By the way, where is the daughter of that member of Congress whom you used to be sweet upon?"

  "She has gone to Cuba to spend the winter," replied Edward.

  "I see just how the land lies now. She has gone to Cuba for her health, and you are pining away in solitude in the frozen north. But, Ned, didn't you write me that the affair had slipped up, fallen through, or something of that sort?"

  "I thought it had; but I didn't know myself," replied the lover, with a sigh.

  "O, ho! I see. She's a beautiful girl. Upon my word, I envy you, Ned. If you hadn't stepped in before me, my dear fellow, I should have fallen into that trap myself."

  "Don't say anything about a trap, Tom. You make me shudder."

  "What ails you, Ned? Isn't it all smooth—the course of true love, and all that sort of thing? Has she given you the mitten?"

  "No, no. Everything is lovely so far as she is concerned."

  "Is her father inimical? Does her mother dislike you, or her grandmother frown upon your hopes?"

  "No. Her father and mother are entirely satisfied to let the affair take its course."

  "Then what are you moping about?" demanded Tom.

  "The opposition comes from my father," answered Edward, as he tacked the boat, and stood off on a long stretch, evidently with the intention of telling his friend all about it.

  "What has your father to do with it?" asked Tom.

  "He dislikes her father."

  "But, if I understand you correctly, you don't purpose to marry her father."

  "There is an old feud, a political affair, between them. The row occurred while I was away from home, fitting for college," added Edward, as he proceeded to disclose his present relations with Sara Medway, and to explain the nature and intensity of his father's opposition to the match.

  "That's awkward, Ned," said Tom. "Your governor is a hard case on a feud."

  "But in everything else he is as indulgent as he can be. I tried to be dutiful, even in a matter of this kind; and I did not see Miss Medway for three months. Then I heard she was ill, and my conscience reproached me. I called to see her. I shall never forget the expression of joy she bestowed upon me. She is as much attached to me as I am to her, and I know that if I desert her she will die of grief."

  "You have a good opinion of yourself, Ned."

  "I am in earnest. I think so. I made the first advances, not she."

  "I should hope not," laughed Tom.

  "And for that reason I feel a sense of responsibility, in addition to my devotion to Sara. Now you know all. What can I do?"

  "Upon my word, Ned, that's a hard question; and a man must be a Solon to advise you."

  "You are the sole un who can advise me, Tom," replied Edward, with a sickly smile.

  "That's a lovesick pun. You are in a tight place. If you hold on, you will be frozen to death; if you let go, you will be burned to death. But I am inclined to think, my dear fellow, from what I have seen of you since I came here, that there is still a third consideration. If you obey your governor, the girl will die of grief; if you marry her, you lose fortune and father; but if you retain fortune and father, you may die of grief yourself. You are moping now; you look pale, and the situation is wearing upon you."

  "But what can I do?"

  "I'll tell you. I'm going to read law this winter with Colonel Bushnel, in New Orleans. Come with me, and we will read law together. Before spring we shall be able to solve the problem."

  The boat returned to the town. Edward liked the plan, for Louisiana was nearer Cuba than Maine was. His father did not seriously object; and in another fortnight both the young men were in the Crescent City.

  CHAPTER II.

  THE END OF A SAD STORY.

  In New York Edward Montague mailed a letter to Sara Medway. Before he had been in New Orleans a week her answer came to him. She was better; her cough had entirely left her, and she slept well. Nothing was needed to make her happy but his presence.

  "Go, Ned; go, by all means," said Tom Barkesdale.

  "But my father—"

  "Never mind your father," interposed Tom, whose impetuous southern temperament could hardly brook the cold caution of his friend.

  "I promised to write to him at least once a month."

  "Do so, then."

  "But my letters will betray me."

  "Date them at New Orleans, a day or two ahead, and send them to me under cover. I will mail them here, and your father will believe you are in this city all the time."

  "That's a mean deception," said Edward, whose impulses were rather above such conduct.

  "All is fair in love and war," laughed Tom. "Your letters from home will come here, and I will forward them to you."

  Under the temptation that beset him Edward did not long consider this scheme before he adopted it; and he went to Havana in the steamer which had brought the letter from Sara. The Medways were still in the city, for the cottage at Limonar, which was to be their residence, was not yet ready for their reception. On his arrival Edward found father and daughter plunged in the deepest grief. However the climate agreed with Sara, it did not agree with her mother. She was taken sick in a sudden and violent manner, and in less than three days she breathed her last, though she was attended by the most skilful resident and foreign physicians.

  Edward's office was now that of comforter, and his presence alone seemed to save the stricken ones from utter despair. Both father and daughter leaned upon him, and he faithfully discharged the duties which devolved upon him. After the funeral of Mrs. Medway, Edward conducted Mr. Medway and Sara to their new home at Limonar. In a few weeks the poignancy of their grief was abated; but Edward's presence seemed to be even more necessary than ever. Tom Barkesdale forwarded his letters and cashed his drafts in New Orleans; and the Honorable Mr. Montague in Maine had no suspicion that his son was not reading law in the Crescent City.

  Two months after the death of Mrs. Medway, Edward Montague was privately married, by an English clergyman, to Sara Medway. The circumstances seemed to justify the breaking through of the ordinary proprieties which regulate the interval between a funeral and a wedding. This event seemed to sweep away all the clouds which lowered over the happiness of the young people.

  Edward had made up his mind to face the wrath of his father, but he desired to postpone the tempest as long as possible. He wrote to Tom a full account of the step he had taken, and that worthy assured him he could conceal his marriage for an indefinite period. The young husband did not flatter himself that even a year could elapse before the momentous secret would be exposed. There were scores of invalids at Limonar, but, fortunately, none who recognized him or the Medways. He was very happy in his new relation, and the health of his wife appeared to be completely restored.

  Letters came regularly from his father—brief, business-like epistles, in which the old gentleman, in his clumsy way, expressed his affection for his son. Edward used his spare time in reading law and studying the Spanish language.

  In the spring Edward's letters, in accordance with a suggestion from Tom, began to hint at a trip to the Rocky Mountains, for it was hardly possible for the young couple to spend the summer in Cuba. In May Edward went to New Orleans with his wife, but was very careful to avoid public places. Two months later, attended by Tom, the party went up the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers, and spent the summer in a quiet village. From this point Edward went home to pass a month with his father, in order to remove any suspicion in the old gentleman's mind, if any had been created; but the old gentleman had never received even a hint of the new relation of his son.

  The news of Mrs. Medway's death had reached the town, and it was known that Sara and her father were spending the winter in the west. This intelligence had been communicated by Mr. Medway, who, of course, did not allude to the marriage of his daughter.

  After spending a month at home, Edward departed for the west, sa
ying that he was to meet Tom Barkesdale at St. Louis, and, after a trip to the Rocky Mountains, they would return to New Orleans, and resume their law studies. The young man wrote to his father from the place where he joined his wife and father-in-law. In the autumn the party went to the south, and, as soon as it was prudent to do so, Edward, his wife, and Mr. Medway returned to Cuba. The cottage at Limonar was just as they had left it, and they resumed their quiet domestic life as before. Edward had observed, with fear and trembling, that some of the consumptive symptoms of his wife appeared while she was at the north. Indeed, she had brought back with her a hacking cough, which, however, soon yielded to the softening influence of the climate.

  Limonar is but a short distance from Matanzas, by railroad, and either Mr. Medway or Edward was obliged to visit the city occasionally, to procure the comforts and luxuries not to be had in a country village.

  Sara's knowledge of Spanish was very limited, though by this time Edward spoke it quite fluently. Her Spanish servants were a constant perplexity to her, and she very much desired to obtain an English or American woman to perform the ordinary offices of the household. On one of his visits to the city Edward met an American woman in great distress. Her husband was a cooper, with whom she had come from a seaport town in Maine, to better their fortunes. High wages tempted him to remain through the summer; but as late as October he fell a victim to yellow fever. He had sent most of his surplus funds home, and his widow soon exhausted her scanty supply of money. Instead of applying to the American consul, she went to live with an English family as a nurse. But there she was taken sick herself, and was sent away from her comfortable home to a boarding-house, lest she should communicate some contagious disease to her employer's family. Here she had contracted a debt which she could not pay, and was seeking a friend to assist her, when she met Edward in a shop. Hearing him speak English, she addressed him.

  Though Mrs. Wayland desired only to return to her home in Maine, Edward prevailed upon her to go with him to Limonar. He paid her debts, provided her with everything she needed, and offered her large wages. All were so kind and indulgent to her that she soon became much attached to her new friends. When she had been a month at the cottage, Edward Montague became the happy father of a fine boy.

  But with this joy came the heaviest of sorrows. Sara's health began to fail, and the incipient malady which had been working upon her physical frame so silently for years rapidly developed itself. The delicious climate had lost its influence; and when the boy was only three months old, his mother breathed her last. Edward and Mr. Medway were stunned by the blow, and wept as those without hope. The young wife was buried by the side of the mother in the cemetery in the vicinity of Havana.

  There was no longer any motive for the survivors to remain in Cuba. Limonar had lost all its glory now, and Edward could not endure the sight of the familiar localities which had been hallowed by the presence of his lost wife. Mr. Medway was alone in the world. His own health was feeble, and he desired only to return to his native land. His spirit was broken, and all this world seemed to have passed away. It was decided that Mr. Medway, with Mrs. Wayland and the child, should take the steamer for New York, and return to Maine, while Edward went home by the way of New Orleans.

  Much as the young father had loved his boy before, he appeared to be in a measure indifferent to him now. His wife and child were a real joy; but the boy alone only reminded him of her whom he had lost.

  When the steamer arrived at New York, Mr. Medway was too feeble to travel. Mrs. Wayland was a faithful nurse to him; but her charge died in a week after he landed. The last of the family was gone. His remains were sent home, and Mrs. Wayland and the child went with them. She knew the whole of the story we have related; and, in his last illness, Mr. Medway had impressed upon her mind, in the strongest manner, the necessity of entire secrecy in regard to his daughter's marriage and the paternity of the child. If Edward chose to acknowledge it, he would do so in due time.

  Mrs. Wayland had no relations to trouble themselves about her affairs; and when she appeared in Camden, which had been the residence of her husband, no one thought of asking whether or not the child was her own. She volunteered no information on this subject; and, recovering the money which her husband had sent home, she was comfortably situated for the present. She found a good boarding-place, and devoted herself wholly to the little one, who already occupied a large place in her affections.

  Edward Montague went to New Orleans, and when he presented himself before his college friend, he looked like another man, so severe had been the workings of his grief upon him. Tom Barkesdale pressed his hand in silence, for he had already been informed by letter of the sad event of the last month.

  "It is all over with me now, Tom," said he, gloomily, as the tears gathered in his hollow eyes.

  "Don't take it so hardly, Ned. Time softens the severest trials."

  "Not mine. I am ready to die myself now."

  "No you are not. Don't give up the battle so. Be a man."

  "I can be nothing now. I shall go home, and let my life ebb out with my sorrows."

  "Don't go home as you are now. You will only make your father miserable. You have no right to do that."

  "I must tell him all."

  "Don't do it, Ned."

  "Why not?"

  "It will only vex and torment your governor to no purpose. He is an old man, and cannot live many years more. Don't disturb him with the reflection that you have disobeyed him."

  "But my child!"

  "Keep the child in the shade for a few years," said Tom; and Edward fully understood him. "One of these days you can acknowledge it, and all will be well. Out of regard to your father's happiness you ought to keep still."

  "As my wife is dead now, I hope he will forgive me."

  "Perhaps he would, perhaps not. What is the use of stirring up the waters and making a storm, when everything is quiet now?"

  "But my father cannot help seeing that something has happened to me. I can never be as I was before."

  "Wait and see," replied the more philosophic young man.

  A letter came from Mr. Montague a few days later. It was in the usual quiet tone, with the gossip and news of the town. Edward dreaded the thought of disturbing the serenity of his father's life. He felt now that he ought not to have deceived the old gentleman; that it would have been better to face his wrath. He was sure that his own and Sara's happiness required that he should marry her; and he could not reproach himself for this step. But by this miserable deception—successful as it had been—he had stepped from the high plane of honor and truth. He was utterly dissatisfied with himself; and all the more so because he realized that his wife was worthy of all the sacrifice he could have made for her sake. Tom Barkesdale reasoned from a different point of view, and insisted that the matter was best as it was. Edward had done right in marrying Sara, and it was quite proper to save Mr. Montague from the pain and misery of a useless opposition.

  Then came another letter from Mrs. Wayland, announcing her safe arrival in New York and the illness of Mr. Medway.

  "I must go to New York at once," said Edward.

  "Don't you do it. You will undo everything that has been done, if you do. Probably Mr. Medway has been seasick overmuch. He will be all right in a few days. Wait till you hear again, at least."

  He did wait, and the next letter informed him of the death of his father-in-law, and that his remains had been sent to his friends in Maine. Mrs. Wayland added that she should go to Camden at once, where a letter from him would reach her.

  "It is no use for you to go now, Ned," said Tom. "You can do no good."

  "I ought to have gone before."

  "As you didn't go before, it cannot be helped. Your father thinks you are diligently reading law in the office of Colonel Bushnell, in New Orleans. We can't help the past; but I advise you to deceive him no longer."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Go into the office and read law with all your might. Then yo
u will be deceiving him no longer. You will be doing just what he thinks you are doing," replied Tom, lightly.

  "And not tell him of the past?"

  "Certainly not."

  Edward felt the need of some occupation, and he accepted the counsel of his friend. He studied day and night, for he could not join in any of the pleasures of the city, or go into the gay society which Tom frequented. He wrote to Mrs. Wayland, enclosing a considerable sum of money; but he forbade her writing to him, lest the fact of a letter to him from Camden should connect him with the child. It was a groundless fear; but he had now fully resolved not to disturb his father's peace by acknowledging his own disobedience.

  For four months he studied so diligently that his friend began to fear he would impair his health. Every day found him more cheerful than the last; and it was plain enough that youth and time were rapidly conquering his grief. He began to go into society again, and the presence of the ladies was not altogether repulsive to him. In June, with Tom as his companion, he went home to spend the summer.

  His father commented upon his altered appearance, but Tom insisted that it was because he had studied so hard. He had not only read law, but had learned the Spanish language, so that he could converse fluently in it. The vacation wonderfully recruited his health, and in the autumn the students returned to their southern home. Edward studied as diligently as ever. Youth had wholly conquered his grief, and he was as before. He sent money regularly to Mrs. Wayland; but he expressed no desire to see his child, though he declared to Tom that the little one still had a place in his heart, and that he intended at some future time to acknowledge it.

  Edward boarded with his friend's father, who had a daughter. She was but sixteen when Edward first became a member of the family. She was nineteen now, and the young northerner began to be tenderly impressed towards her, though his attentions did not begin till his wife had been dead over a year. The attraction was mutual, and Edward wrote to his father about it. The old gentleman was pleased, and facetiously remarked that he had all along supposed there was something or somebody in New Orleans, besides Tom or the law, that had drawn him there for three winters. He hadn't the slightest objection. Edward could now please himself in that respect, as in every other. The "now" was heavily underscored, and the son had no difficulty in understanding his meaning. It was known that all the Medways were dead, and the Honorable Mr. Montague could no longer object to any match his heir might choose to make.