The regular boarders at the ---- Hotel were discussing their dinner with
all the haste and greediness which characterizes their Eastern brethren.
The first and second courses had been removed, and the merits of the
dessert were about to be tested when for a moment the operation ceased,
while the operators welcomed back to their midst a middle-aged man, who
for a few weeks had been absent from the city.
That Captain Murdock was a general favorite, could readily be seen by
the heartiness of his greeting from his friends, and that he was worthy
of esteem, none knew better than the hundreds of poor and destitute who
had often been relieved and comforted by his well-filled purse, and
words of genuine sympathy. Possessed of unbounded wealth, he scattered
it about him with no miserly hand, and many a child of poverty blessed
him for the great good done to him.
"Well, captain," said one of the boarders, "glad to see you back. We've
been mighty lonesome without you. Found your room occupied, didn't you?"
"Yes," returned the man addressed as captain, "the landlord tells me he
took the liberty to put the young man in there because the house was so
full. Of course, he couldn't know that he would be too sick to vacate
the premises in the morning; but it's all right. I, who have slept so
often on the ground, don't mind camping on the floor now and then."
Here a dozen voices interposed offering him a part or the whole of their
rooms, but the good-natured captain declined them all, saying "he should
do very well, and perhaps the young man would not be sick long. Did they
know where he came from? Was he a stranger or a resident in California?"
A stranger, they replied, adding that he came from New York about two
weeks before, and had almost immediately been taken sick, and that was
all they knew about him.
Dinner being over, Captain Murdock went up to his room, not to see the
sick man particularly, but because he wished to remove to another
apartment a few articles which he would probably need.
Walter, for it was he, was sleeping, while near him, in an arm-chair,
dozed the old crone who had been hired to nurse him. One glance at the
former convinced the captain that he was poorly cared for and must
necessarily be very uncomfortable. Still he might not have interfered,
had not the sick man moaned uneasily in his sleep, and turning on his
side, murmured the name of _father_.
Never had Captain Murdock been thus addressed,--no infant arms had ever
twined themselves around his neck,--no sweet voice called him
_father_,--and yet this one word thrilled him with an undefinable
emotion, awakening at once within his bosom feelings of tender pity for
the sick man, who seemed so young and helpless.
"Poor boy," he whispered, "he is dreaming of his home away in the East,
and of the loved ones who little know how much he needs their care," and
advancing toward the bedside, he adjusted the tumbled pillows, smoothed
the soiled spread, pushed back the tangled hair from the burning
forehead, and was turning away when Walter awoke, and fixing his bright
eyes upon him, said faintly, "Don't go."
Thus entreated the captain sat down beside him, while the old nurse
roused up, exclaiming:
"Sakes alive, captain! is that you? Ain't you feared the fever's
catching? He's got it mightily in his head, and keeps a goin' on about
Jessy, his brother, I guess, or some chap he know'd at home."
At the mention of Jessie, Walter turned his eyes again upon the captain,
and said.
"Jessie's married. Did you know it?"
"Yes, I know it," answered the captain, thinking it best to humor the
whim. "Whom did she marry?"
"William," was the reply, "and I loved her so much."
At this point the nurse arose, saying:
"Bein' you're here, I'll go out a bit," and she left the room.
Walter looked uneasily after her, and when she was gone, said:
"Lock the door, and keep her out. Don't let her come back. She's one of
Macbeth's witches, and makes one think of Jessie's grandmother, who
won't let me talk of love to Jessie, until I am--well, no matter what.
Do you know my father?"
"No," and the captain shook his head mournfully, while Walter continued:
"Are you anybody's father?"
"I don't know," and the voice was sadder than when it spoke before.
"I'm looking for my father," Walter said, "just as Telemachus looked for
his. Do you know Ulysses?"
The captain had heard of Ulysses, and the mention of him carried him
back to an old stone house on the hill, where he had read the wonderful
adventures of the hero.
"Well," Walter continued, "I am hunting for my father, and Jessie cried
up in the pines when I told her about him, and how her father testified
against him. Do you know Mr. Graham?"
"Who?" screamed the captain, bounding to his feet, and bending so near
to Walter that his hot breath stirred the thick brown hair. "Do I know
whom?"
But Walter refused to answer, or even to speak; the captain's manner had
startled him, or it may be there was something in the keen eye fixed so
earnestly upon him, which held him speechless.
For a moment the two gazed fixedly at each other,--the old man and the
young,--the latter with a bright, vacant stare, while the other sought
for some token to tell him that it was not without a reason his heart
beat so fast with a hope of he scarcely knew what.
"I will inquire below," he said at last, as he failed to elicit any
information from Walter, and going to the office, he turned the leaves
of the register back to the day when he had left three weeks before.
Then with untiring patience he read on and on, read Jones and Smith, and
Smith and Brown, some with wives and some without, some with daughters,
some with sisters, and some alone, but none as yet were sent to No. 40.
So he read on again and then at last he found the name he
sought,--_Walter Marshall_.
"Thank God! thank God!" he uttered faintly, and those who heard only the
last word thought to themselves:
"I never knew the captain _swore_ before."
With great effort he compelled himself to be calm, and when at last he
spoke none detected in his voice a trace of the shock that name had
given him, bringing back at once the gable-roofed farm-house far away,
the maple tree where his name was cut, the brown-haired wife, the stormy
night when the wind rushed sobbing past the window where he stood and
looked his last on her, the mother long since dead, and the father who
believed him guilty.
All this passed in rapid review before his mind, and then his thoughts
came back to the present time, and centered themselves upon the
restless, tossing form which, up in No. 40, had said to him:
"Do you know my father?"
"What is it, captain?" the landlord asked. "Your face is white as
paper."
"I am thinking," and the captain spoke naturally, "I am thinking that I
will take care of that young man. I find I know his people, or used to
know them, rather. Dismiss that imbecile old woman," and having said so
much he left the room and fled up the stairs seeing nothing but that
name as it looked upon the page,--_Walter Marshall_.
He repeated it again and again, and in the tone with which he did so
there was a peculiar tenderness, such as mothers are only supposed to
feel toward their children.
"Walter Marshall,--my boy,--Ellen's and mine," and over the boy, which
was Ellen's and his, the man, old before his time, bent down and wept
great teardrops, which fell upon the white handsome face, which grew
each moment more and more like the young girl wife, whose grave the
broken-hearted husband had never looked upon.
"Why do you cry?" asked Walter, and the captain replied:
"I had a son once like you, and it makes me cry to see you here so sick.
I am going to take care of you, too, and send that woman off."
"Oh! will you?" was Walter's joyful cry, "and will you stay until I find
my father?"
"Yes, yes, I will stay with you always," and again Seth Marshall's lips
touched those of his son.
"Isn't it funny for men to kiss men?" Walter asked, passing his hand
over the spot. "I thought they only kissed women, girls like Jessie, and
I don't kiss her now. I haven't since she was a little thing and gave me
one of her curls. It's in my trunk, with a lock of mother's hair. Did
you know _mother_, man?"
"Yes, yes, oh, Heaven, yes," and the man thus questioned fell upon his
knees, and hiding his face in the bed-clothes, sobbed aloud.
His grief distressed Walter, who, without understanding it clearly, felt
that he was himself in some way connected with it, and laying his hand
upon the gray hair within his reach, he smoothed it caressingly, saying:
"Don't cry. It won't do any good. I used to cry when I was a boy and
thought of poor, dear father."
"Say it again. Say, 'poor, dear father,' once more," and the white,
haggard face lifted itself slowly up and crept on until it lay beside
the feverish one upon the pillow.
Thus it was the father met his son, and all through the afternoon he sat
by him, soothing him to sleep, and then bending fondly over him to watch
him while he slept.
"He is some like Ellen," he whispered, "but more like me, as I was in my
early manhood, and yet, as he lies sleeping, there is a look about him
that I have often seen on Ellen's face when she was asleep. Darling
wife, we little thought when we talked together of our child, that the
first time I beheld him would be beneath the California skies, and he a
bearded man."
Then, as he remembered what Walter had said of the hair, he opened the
lid of the trunk, and hunted until he found Jessie's raven curl, and the
longer, browner tress. He knew in a moment that it was Ellen's
hair,--and kissing it reverently he twined it about his fingers just as
he used to when the soft eyes it shaded looked lovingly into his.
"Walter's is like it," he said, stealing to the bedside, and laying it
among the brown locks of his son. "Bless my boy,--bless my boy!" and
going back again, he placed the lock of hair beside this jet black
ringlet wondering who Jessie was, and why she had married another.
It was growing dark when Walter awoke, but between himself and the
window he saw the outline of his friend, and knowing he was not alone,
fell away again to sleep, resting better that night than he had done
before since the commencement of his illness.
For many days Captain Murdock watched by him, and when at last the
danger was passed, and Walter restored to consciousness, he was the
first to know it, and bending over him he breathed a prayer of
thanksgiving for the restoration of his son.
"Who are you?" Walter asked after objects and events had assumed a
rational form. "Who are you, and why have you been so kind to me, as I
am sure you have?"
"I am called Captain Murdock," was the answer "This is my room; the one
I have occupied for a long, long time. I left the city some weeks ago on
business and during my absence you came. As the house was full the
landlord put you in here for one night, but in the morning you were too
ill to be moved. You have been very sick, and as your nurse was none of
the best, I dismissed her and took care of you myself, because if I had
a son in a strange land I should want some one to care for him, and I
only did what your father would wish me to do. You have a father, young
man?"
The question was put affirmatively, and without looking at the eyes
fixed so intently upon him, Walter colored crimson as he replied:
"I hope I have, though I don't know. I never saw him except in dreams."
Captain Murdock turned toward the window for a moment, and then in a
calm voice continued:
"I will not seek your confidence. You said some strange things in your
delirium, but they are safe with me,--as safe as if I were the father
you never saw. This came for you some days ago," and he held up Mr.
Graham's letter, the sight of which had wrung a cry of pain from his own
lips, for he knew whose hand had traced the name that letter bore.
"And has anybody written to the people at home?" Walter asked, and
Captain Murdock replied:
"Yes, the landlord sent a few lines, saying that you were ill, but well
cared for. He directed to 'Walter Marshall's Friends, Deerwood, Mass.,'
for by looking over your papers, we found your family lived there. A
grandfather, perhaps, if you have no father?" and Seth Marshall waited
anxiously for the answer which would tell him if his aged sire were yet
numbered among the living.
In his ravings Walter had never spoken of him, and the heart, not less a
child's because its owner was a man, grew faint with fear lest his
father should be dead. Walter's reply, however, dissipated all his
doubt.
"Yes, my grandfather lives there, but this is not from him," and
breaking open the envelope, Walter read what Mr. Graham had written,
heeding little what was said of business, scarcely knowing, indeed, that
business was mentioned at all, in his great joy at finding that
Charlotte and not Jessie was William's chosen bride.
"He deceived me purposely," he thought, and then, as he realized more
and more that Jessie was not married, he said aloud, "I am so glad, so
glad."
"You must have good news," the captain suggested, and Walter answered:
"Yes, blessed news," then as there came over him a strong desire to talk
of the good news with some one, he continued:
"Tell me, Captain Murdock, have I talked of Jessie Graham?"
The captain started, for he had not thought of Jessie as the daughter of
Richard Graham.
"Yes," he answered, "you said that she was married."
"But she isn't," interrupted Walter. "It was a lie imposed upon me by
that false-hearted William Bellenger."
"You spoke of him, too," said the captain, "and I fancied he might be
your cousin. You see I am tolerably well posted in your affairs," and
the pleasant smile which accompanied these words, disarmed Walter at
once from all fear that his secrets would be betrayed.
"What else did you learn?" he asked, and the captain replied:
"There is some trouble about your father. He robbed a bank, didn't he?"
and there was a strange look in the keen eyes which did not now rest on
Walter's face, but sought the floor as if doubtful of the answer.
"Never, never!" Walter exclaimed, with an energy which brought the blood
to his pale cheek, and tears to the eyes riveted upon the carpet. "He
never did that."
"He has been proved innocent, then?" and in the voice which asked the
question there was a trembling eagerness.
"Not proved so to the world, but I need no proof," returned Walter. "I
never for a moment thought him guilty."
Then after a pause, he added. "I have, I see, unwittingly divulged much
of my family history, and lest you should have received a wrong
impression, I may as well confess the whole to you, but not now, I am
too much excited, too tired to talk longer."
He was indeed exhausted, and for several hours he lay quite still,
saying but little and thinking happy thoughts of home and _Jessie_, who
Mr. Graham wrote, "mourned sadly over his absence."
Suddenly remembering the message he had left, and which would seem to
say he loved Charlotte Reeves, he bade the captain bring to him pen and
paper, and with a shaking hand he wrote to Mr. Graham:
"I am getting better fast, thanks to Captain Murdock, who, though a
stranger, has been the best of friends, and kindest nurse. Forgive me,
Mr. Graham. I thought the bride was Jessie. Don't hate me, I could not
help it, and I had learned to love her before I heard from Mrs. Bartow
that you would be displeased. I will overcome it if I can, for I
promised the grandmother I would not talk of love to Jessie, until my
father was proved innocent."
This was all he had strength to write, and when the letter was finished,
he relapsed into a thoughtful, half dreamy state, from which he did not
rouse for a day or two. Then, with strength renewed, he called the
captain to him, and bidding him sit down beside him, told him the whole
story of his life, even to his love for Jessie Graham,--which he must
not tell until his father were proved innocent.
There was a smothered groan in the direction where Mr. Marshall sat, and
inwardly the unfortunate man prayed:
"How long, dear Lord, oh, how long must thy servant wait?"
"Mr. Graham may release you from that promise," he said, "and then you
surely would not hesitate."
"Perhaps not," Walter answered, for in spite of what Mrs. Bartow had
said, he, too, entertained a secret hope that Mr. Graham would in some
way interfere for him.
"What would be the result if your father should return to Deerwood?"
Captain Murdock asked. "Would they proceed against him?"
"Oh, no! oh, no;" said Walter. "It was so long ago, and everybody who
knew him speaks well of him now. I have often wished he would come home,
and when I was a little boy, I used to watch by the window till it grew
dark, and then cry myself to sleep. Did I tell you his arm-chair stands
in the kitchen corner now just where he left it that night he went away!
It was a fancy of grandpa's that no one should ever sit in it again, and
no one has, but Jessie. She would make a playhouse of it, in spite of
all we could say. I wish you could see Jessie and grandfather and all."
The captain wished so, too, and in his dreams that night, he was back
again by the old hearth stone, sitting in the chair kept for him so
long, and listening to his father's voice blessing his long-lost son.
All this might be again, he said, when he awoke but his young wife,
whose face he saw, just as it looked on her bridal day, would not be
there to meet him, and the strong man wept again as he had not done in
many years, over the blight which had fallen so heavily upon him.
Rapidly the days and weeks went by, and then there came letters both
from Mr. Graham and Mrs. Bellenger, telling how the wedding song had
been changed into a wail of sorrow, and that the elegant William
Bellenger was branded as a villain. Mr. Graham, too, spoke of Jessie,
saying toward the close:
"You told me no news, dear Walter, when you said you loved my daughter.
I knew it long ago and I have watched you narrowly, to see if you were
worthy of her. That I think you are, I prove to you by saying, that to
no young man of my acquaintance, would I entrust her happiness so
willingly as to you, and had you talked to me freely upon the subject,
you would not, perhaps, have been in California now. Your remark
concerning Mrs. Bartow reminded me of what she once told me, and when I
questioned her again upon the subject, demanding to know the truth, she
confessed the falsehood she imposed on you, by saying I did not wish you
to marry Jessie. I can find nothing to excuse her save her foolish
pride, which will probably never be subdued. Still she is your stanch
friend now, just as she is poor William's bitter enemy. You have said
you would not talk of love to Jessie until your father was proved
innocent. This, my dear Walter, may never be, even if he is living,
which is very doubtful. So why should you hesitate. You have my free
consent to say to her whatever you think best to say. She is in
Deerwood, now, with poor Lottie, who is sadly mortified at what she
considers her disgrace. I am doing what I can for William, so is his
grandmother; but his father refuses to see him or even hear his name
spoken. Unfortunate Will, he seems penitent, and has acknowledged
everything to me, even the wicked part he acted toward you, by deceiving
you. I thank Heaven every day that Jessie's choice fell on you, and not
on him."
This letter made Walter supremely happy, and to Captain Murdock, in whom
he now confided everything, he told how, immediately on his return to
New York, he should ask the young lady to be his wife.
"And would you like your father to come back even though his guilt could
not be disproved?" the captain asked, and Walter answered:
"Yes, oh, yes; but I'm afraid he never will. Poor father, if I could
once look upon his face."
"You shall--you do!" sprang to the lips of Captain Murdock, but he
forced the wild words back, and going away alone, he prayed, as he often
did, that the load he had borne so long might be lifted from his heart,
and that the sun of domestic peace, which had early set in gloom, might
shine upon his later life.