THIS dry epistle Dalton read and re-read, trying, if not to discover
some touch of kindliness or interest, to detect, at least, some clew
to its writer's nature; but to no use, its quaint formalism baffled all
speculation, and he gave up the pursuit in despair. That “the Count”
was his father's only brother, and a “Dalton,” were the only grains of
comfort he could extract from his meditations; but he had lived long
enough in the world to know how little binding were the ties of kindred
when once slackened by years and distance. The Count might, therefore,
regard them in the light of intruders, and feel the very reverse of
pleasure at the revival of a relationship which had slept for more than
half a century. Dalton's pride or what he thought his pride revolted
against this thought; for, although this same pride would not have
withheld him from asking a favor of the Count, it would have assumed a
most indignant attitude if refused, or even grudgingly accorded.
When the thought first occurred to him of applying to his uncle in
Frank's behalf, he never hesitated about the propriety of addressing
a request to one with whom he had never interchanged a line in all his
life; and now he was quite ready to take offence, if all the warmth
of blood relationship should not fill the heart of him who had been an
exile from home and family since his earliest boyhood.
An easy, indolent selfishness had been the spirit of Dalton's whole
life. He liked to keep a good house, and to see company about him;
and this obtained for him the reputation of hospitality. He disliked
unpopularity, and dreaded the “bad word” of the people; and hence he
suffered his tenantry to fall into arrears and his estate into ruin. A
vain rivalry with wealthier neighbors prevented retrenchment when
his means were lessened. The unthinking selfishness of his nature was
apparent even in his marriage, since it was in obedience to an old
pledge extracted years before that Miss Godfrey accepted him, and parted
in anger with her brother, who had ever loved her with the warmest
affection. Mr. Godfrey never forgave his sister; and at his death, the
mysterious' circumstances of which were never cleared up, his estate
passed to a distant relative, the rick Sir Gilbert Stafford.
Dalton, who long cherished the hope of a reconciliation, saw all
prospect vanish when his wife died, which she did, it was said, of a
broken heart. His debts were already considerable, and all the resources
of borrowing and mortgage had been long since exhausted; nothing was
then left for him but an arrangement with his creditors, which, giving
him a pittance scarcely above the very closest poverty, enabled him to
drag out life in the cheap places of the Continent; and thus, for nigh
twenty years, had he wandered about from Dieppe to Ostend, to Bruges, to
Dusseldorf, to Coblentz, and so on, among the small Ducal cities, till,
with still failing fortune, he was fain to seek a residence for the
winter in Baden, where house-rent, at least, would be almost saved to
him.
The same apathy that had brought on his ruin enabled him to bear it.
Nothing has such a mock resemblance to wisdom as utter heartlessness;
with all the seeming of true philosophy, it assumes a port and bearing
above the trials of the world; holds on “the even tenor of its way,”
undeterred by the reverses which overwhelm others, and even meets the
sternest frowns of fortune with the bland smile of equanimity.
In this way Dalton had deceived many who had known him in better days,
and who now saw him, even in his adversity, with the same careless,
good-natured look, as when he took the field with his own hounds, or
passed round the claret at his own table. Even his own children were
sharers in this delusion, and heard him with wondering admiration, as he
told of the life he used to lead, and the style he once kept up at Mount
Dalton. These were his favorite topics; and, as he grew older, he
seemed to find a kind of consolation in contrasting all the hard rubs of
present adversity with his once splendor.
Upon Ellen Dalton, who had known and could still remember her mother,
these recitals produced an impression of profound grief, associated as
they were with the sufferings of a sick-bed and the closing sorrows of a
life; while, in the others, they served to keep up a species of pride of
birth, and an assumption of superiority to others of like fortune,
which their father gloried in, representing, as he used to say, “the old
spirit of the Dal tons.”
As for Kate, she felt it a compensation for present poverty to know that
they were of gentle blood, and that if fortune, at some distant future,
would deal kindly by them, to think that they should not obtrude
themselves like upstarts on the world, but resume, as it were, the place
that was long their own.
In Frank the evil had taken a deeper root. Taught from his earliest
infancy to believe himself the heir of an ancient house, pride of birth
and station instilled into his mind by old Andy, the huntsman, the only
dependant, whom, with characteristic wisdom, they had carried with
them from Ireland, he never ceased to ponder on the subject, and wonder
within himself if he should live to have “his own” again.
Such a hold had this passion taken of him, that, even as a child, he
would wander away for days long into lonely and unfrequented spots,
thinking over the stories he had heard, and trying to conjure up before
his eyes some resemblance to that ancient house and venerable domain
which had been so long in his family. It was no part of his teaching to
know by what spendthrift and reckless waste, by what a long career of
folly, extravagance, and dissipation, the fortune of his family had been
wrecked; or rather, many vague and shadowy suspicions had been left
to fester in his mind of wrongs and injuries done them; of severe laws
imposed by English ignorance or cruelty; of injustice, on this hand
heartless indifference of friends on the other; the unrelenting anger
of his uncle Godfrey filling up the measure of their calamities. Frank
Dalton's education went very little further than this; but, bad as it
was, its effect was blunted by the natural frankness and generosity of
his character, its worst fruits being an over-estimate of himself and
his pretensions, errors which the world has always the watchful kindness
to correct in those who wear threadbare coats and patched boots.
He was warmly and devotedly attached to his father and sisters, and
whatever bitterness found its way into his heart was from seeing them
enduring the many trials of poverty.
All his enthusiasm for the service in which he was about to enter was,
therefore, barely sufficient to overcome the sorrow of parting with
those, whom alone of all the world he loved; and when the moment drew
nigh for his departure, he forgot the bright illusions by which he had
so often fed his hopes, and could only think of the grief of separation.
His candle had burned down nearly to the socket, when he arose and
looked at his watch. It was all dark as midnight without, although nigh
six o'clock. He opened the window, and a thin snowdrift came slanting
in, borne on a cutting north wind; he closed it hastily, and shuddered
as he thought of the long and lonely march before him. All was silent
in the house as he dressed himself and prepared for the road. With
noiseless step he drew near his father's door and listened; everything
was still. He could not bring himself to disturb him, so he passed on
to the room where his sisters slept. The door lay ajar, and a candle was
burning on the table. Frank entered on tiptoe and drew near the bed, but
it was empty and had not been lain in. As he turned round he beheld Kate
asleep in a chair, dressed as he had last seen her. She had never lain
down, and the prayer-book, which had dropped from her hand, told how her
last waking moments were passed.
He kissed her twice, but even the hot tears that fell from his eyes upon
her cheek did not break her slumber. He looked about him for some token
to leave, that might tell he had been there, but there was nothing, and,
with a low sigh, he stole from the room.
As he passed out into the kitchen, Ellen was there. She had already
prepared his breakfast, and was spreading the table when he entered.
“How good of you how kind, Ellen,” said he, as he passed his arm around
her neck.
“Hush, Frank, they are both sleeping. Poor papa never closed his eyes
till half an hour ago, and Kate was fairly overcome ere she yielded.”
“You will say that I kissed them, Nelly, kissed them twice,” said he,
in a low, broken voice, “and that I could n't bear to awake them.
Leave-taking is so sorrowful. Oh, Ellen, if I knew that you were all
happy, that there were no hardships before you, when I 'm away!”
“And why should we not, Frank?” said she, firmly. “There is no dishonor
in this poverty, so long as there are no straits to make it seem other
than it is. Let us rather pray for the spirit that may befit any lot we
are thrown in, than for a fortune to which we might be unsuited.”
“Would you forget who we are, Ellen?” said he, half reproachfully.
“I would remember it, Frank, in a temper less of pride than humility.”
“I do not see much of the family spirit in all this,” rejoined he,
almost angrily.
“The family spirit,” echoed she, feelingly. “What has it ever done for
us, save injury? Has it suggested a high=bearing courage against the
ills of narrow fortune? Has it told us how to bear poverty with dignity,
or taught us one single lesson of patience and submission? Or has it, on
the contrary, been ever present to whisper the changes in our condition
how altered our lot making us ashamed of that companionship which our
station rendered possible for us, and leaving us in the isolation of
friendlessness for the sake of I blush to abuse the word our Pride! Oh,
Frank, my dear, dear brother, take it not ill of me, that in our last
moments together, perhaps for years, I speak what may jar upon your ears
to hear; but remember that I am much older, that I have seen far more
of the world, at least of its sorrows and cares, than you have. I have
indeed known affliction in many ways, but have never found a poorer
comforter in its troubles than what we call our Pride!”
“You would have me forget I am a Dalton, then?” said the boy, in a tone
of sorrowful meaning.
“Never! when the recollection could prompt a generous or a noble action,
a manly ambition, or a high-hearted thought; but the name will have
no spell in it, if used to instil an imperious, discontented spirit,
a regretful contrast of what we are, with what we might have been, or
what, in a worldly sense, is more destructive still, a false reliance on
the distinction of a family to which we have contributed nothing.”
[Illustration: 050]
“You do not know, Nelly dearest, of what a comfort you have robbed me,”
said Frank, sorrowfully.
“Do not say so, my dearest brother,” cried she, passing her arm around
him; “a deception, a mere illusion, is unworthy of that name. Look above
the gratification of mere vanity, and you will become steeled against
the many wounds self-love is sure to receive in intercourse with the
world. I cannot tell how, or with what associates, you are about to
live, but I feel certain that in every station a man of truth and honor
will make himself respected. Be such, dearest Frank. If family pride if
the name of Dalton have value in your eyes, remember that upon you it
rests to assert its right to distinction. If, as I would fondly hope,
your heart dwells here with us, bethink ye what joy what holy gratitude
you will diffuse around our humble hearth to know that our brother is a
good man.”
It was some moments ere either could speak again. Emotions, very
different ones, perhaps, filled their hearts, and each was too deeply
moved for words. Frank's eyes were full of tears, and his cheek
quivering, as he threw his knapsack on his shoulder.
“You will write from Innspruck, Frank; but how many days will it take
ere you reach that city?”
“Twelve or fourteen at least, if I go on foot. There, Nelly, do not help
me, dearest; I shall not have you tomorrow to fasten these straps.”
“This is not to be forgotten, Frank; it's Kate's present. How sorry she
will be not to have given it with her own hands!” And so saying, she
gave him the purse her sister had worked.
“But there is gold in it,” said the boy, growing pale with emotion.
“Very little, Frank dearest,” replied she, smiling. “A cadet must always
have gold in his purse, so little Hans tells us; and you know how wise
he is in all these matters.”
“And is it from a home like this that I am to take gold away!” cried he,
passionately.
“Nay, Frank, you must not persuade us that we are so very poor. I
will not consent to any sense of martyrdom, I promise you.” It was not
without difficulty she could overcome his scruples; nor, perhaps, had
she succeeded at all, if his thoughts had not been diverted into another
channel by a light tapping at the door. It was Hans Roeckle come to
awake him.
Again and again the brother and sister embraced; and in a very agony of
tears Frank tore himself away, and hastened down the stairs. The next
moment the heavy house door banged loudly, and he was gone.
Oh, the loneliness of mind in which he threaded his way through the dark
and narrow streets, where the snow already lay deeply! With what sinking
of the heart he turned to look for the last time at the window where the
light the only one to be seen still glimmered. How little could all the
promptings of hope suffice against the sad and dark reality that he was
leaving all he loved, and all who loved him, to adventure upon a world
where all was bleak and friendless!
But not all his dark forebodings could equal hers from whom he had just
parted. Loving her brother with an affection more like that of mother
than sister, she had often thought over the traits of his character,
where, with many a noble gift, the evil seeds of wrong teaching had
left, like tall weeds among flowers, the baneful errors of inordinate
self-esteem and pride. Ignorant of the career on which he was about to
enter, Ellen could but speculate vaguely how such a character would be
esteemed, and whether his native frankness and generosity would cover
over, or make appear as foibles, these graver faults. Their own narrow
fortunes, the very straits and privations of poverty, with all their
cruel wounds to honest pride, and all their sore trials of temper, she
could bear up against with an undaunted courage. She had learned her
lesson in the only school wherein it is taught, and daily habit had
instilled its own powers of endurance; but, for Frank, her ambition
hoped a higher and brighter destiny, and now, in her solitude, and with
a swelling heart, she knelt down and prayed for him. And, oh! if the
utter ings of such devotion never rise to Heaven or meet acceptance
there, they at least bring balm to the spirit of him who syllables
them, building up a hope whose foundations are above the casualties of
humanity, and giving a courage that mere self-reliance never gave.
Little Hans not only came to awaken Frank, but to give him companionship
for some miles of his way, a thoughtful kindness, for which the youth's
deep preoccupation seemed to offer but a poor return. Indeed, Frank
scarcely knew that he was not travelling in utter solitude, and all the
skilful devices of the worthy dwarf to turn the channel of his thoughts
were fruitless. Had there been sufficient light to have surveyed the
equipment of his companion, it is more than probable that the sight
would have done more to produce this diversion of gloom than any
arguments which could have been used. Master Roeckle, whose mind was
a perfect storehouse of German horrors, earthly and unearthly, and who
imagined that a great majority of the human population of the globe were
either bandits or witches, had surrounded himself with a whole museum
of amulets and charms of various kinds. In his cap he wore the tail of
a black squirrel, as a safeguard against the “Forest Imp;” a large dried
toad hung around his neck, like an order, to protect him from the evil
eye; a duck's foot was fastened to the tassel of his boot, as a talisman
against drowning; while strings of medals, coins, precious stones,
blessed beads, and dried insects, hung round and about him in every
direction. Of all the portions of his equipment, however, what seemed
the most absurd was a huge pole-axe of the fifteenth century, and which
he carried as a defence against mere mortal foes, but which, from its
weight and size, appeared far more likely to lay its bearer low than
inflict injury upon others. It had been originally stored up in the Rust
Kammer, at Prague, and was said to be the identical weapon with which
Conrad slew the giant at Leutmeritz, a fact which warranted Hans in
expending two hundred florins in purchasing it; as, to use his own
emphatic words, “it was not every day one knew where to find the weapon
to bring down a giant.”
As Hans, encumbered by his various adjuncts, trotted along beside his
stalwart companion, he soon discovered that all his conversational
ability to exert which cost him so dearly was utterly unattended to;
he fell into a moody silence, and thus they journeyed for miles of way
without interchanging a word. At last they came in sight of the little
village of Hernitz Kretschen, whence by a by road Frank was to reach
the regular line that leads through the Hohlen Thai to the Lake of
Constance, and where they were to part.
“I feel as though I could almost go all the way with you,” said Hans, as
they stopped to gaze upon the little valley where lay the village, and
beyond which stretched a deep forest of dark pine-trees, traversed by a
single road.
“Nay, Hans,” said Frank, smiling, as for the first time he beheld the
strange figure beside him; “you must go back to your pleasant little
village and live happily, to do many a kindness to others, as you have
done to me to-day!”
“I would like to take service with the Empress myself,” said Hans, “if
it were for some good and great cause, like the defence of the Church
against the Turks, or the extermination of the race of dragons that
infest the Lower Danube.”
“But you forget, Hans, it is an Emperor, rules over Austria now,” said
Frank, preferring to offer a correction to the less startling of his
hallucinations.
“No, no, Master Frank, they have not deposed the good Maria Teresa,
they would never do that. I saw her picture over the doorway of the
Burgermeister the last time I went to visit my mother in the Bregertzer
Wald, and by the same token her crown and sceptre were just newly gilt,
a thing they would not have done if she were not on the throne.”
“What if she were dead, and her son too?” said Frank; but his words were
scarce uttered when he regretted to have said them, so striking was the
change that came over the dwarf's features.
“If that were indeed true, Heaven have mercy on us!” exclaimed he,
piously. “Old Frederick will have but little pity for good Catholics!
But no, Master Frank, this cannot be. The last time I received soldiers
from Nuremberg they wore the same uniforms as ever, and the 'Moriamur
pro Rege nostro, M. T.' was in gold letters on every banner as before.”
Frank was in no humor to disturb so innocent and so pleasing a delusion,
and he gave no further opposition; and now they both descended the
path which led to the little inn of the village. Here Hans insisted on
performing the part of host, and soon the table was covered with brown
bread and hard eggs, and those great massive sausages which Germans
love, together with various flasks of Margrafler and other “Badisch”
wines.
“Who knows,” said Hans, as he pledged his guest by ringing his
wine-glass against the other's, “if, when we meet again, thou wouldst
sit down at the table with such as me?”
“How so, Hanserl?” asked the boy, in astonishment.
“I mean, Master Franz, that you may become a colonel, or perhaps a
general, with, mayhap, the 'St. Joseph' at your button-hole, or the
'Maria Teresa' around your neck; and if so, how could you take your
place at the board with the poor toy-maker?”
“I am not ashamed to do so now,” said Frank, haughtily; “and the Emperor
cannot make me more a gentleman than my birth has done. Were I to be
ashamed of those who befriended me, I should both disgrace my rank and
name together.”
“These are good words, albeit too proud ones,” said Hans, thoughtfully.
“As a guide through life, pride will do well enough when the roads are
good and your equipage costly; but when you come upon mountain-paths and
stony tracts, with many a wild torrent to cross, and many a dark glen to
traverse, humility even a child's humility will give better teaching.”
“I have no right to be other than humble!” said the boy; but the
flashing brightness of his eyes, and the heightened color of his cheek,
seemed to contradict his words.
For a while the conversation flagged, or was maintained in short and
broken sentences, when at length Frank said,
“You will often go to see them, Hanserl, won't you? You'll sit with
them, too, of an evening? for they will feel lonely now; and my father
will like to tell you his stories about home, as he calls it still.”
“That will I,” said Hans; “they are the happiest hours of my life when I
sit beside that hearth.”
Frank drew his hand across his eyes, and his lips quivered as he tried
to speak.
“You'll be kind to poor Ellen, too; she is so timid, Hans. You cannot
believe how anxious she is, lest her little carvings should be thought
unworthy of praise.”
“They are gems! they are treasures of art!” cried Hans,
enthusiastically.
“And my sweet Kate!” cried the boy, as his eyes ran over, while a throng
of emotions seemed to stop his utterance.
“She is so beautiful!” exclaimed Hans, fervently. “Except the Blessed
Maria at the Holy Cross, I never beheld such loveliness. There is the
Angelus ringing; let us pray a blessing on them;” and they both knelt
down in deep devotion. Frank's lips never moved, but with swelling heart
and clasped hands he remained fixed as a statue; while Hanserl in some
quaint old rhyme uttered his devotions.
“And yonder is the dog-star, bright and splendid,” said Hans, as he
arose. “There never was a happier omen for the beginning of a journey.
You 'll be lucky, boy; there is the earnest of good fortune. That same
star was shining along the path as I entered Baden, eighteen years ago;
and see what a lucky life has mine been!”
Frank could not but smile at the poor dwarf's appreciation of his
fortune; but Hanserl's features wore a look that betokened a happy and
contented nature.
“And yours has been a lucky life, Hanserl?” said he, half in question.
“Lucky? ay, that has it. I was a poor boy, barefooted and hungry in my
native forest deformed, and stunted, too a thing to pity too weak to
work, and with none to teach me, and yet even I was not forgotten by Him
who made the world so fair and beautiful; but in my heart was planted
a desire to be something to do something, that others might benefit by.
The children used to mock me as I passed along the road; but a voice
whispered within me, 'Be of courage, Hanserl, they will bless thee yet,
they will greet thee with many a merry laugh and joyous cry, and call
thee their own kind Hanserl:' and so have I lived to see it! My name
is far and wide over Germany. Little boys and girls know and speak of
me amongst the first words they syllable; and from the palace to the
bauer's hut, Hans Roeckle has his friends; and who knows that when
this poor clay is mingled with the earth, but that my spirit will hover
around the Christmas-tree when glad voices call upon me! I often think
it will be so.”
Frank's eyes glistened as he gazed upon the dwarf, who spoke with a
degree of emotion and feeling very different from his wont.
“So you see, Master Franz,” said he, smiling, “there are ambitions of
every hue, and this of mine you may deem of the very faintest, but it
is enough for me. Had I been a great painter, or a poet, I would have
revelled in the thought that my genius adorned the walls of many a noble
palace, and that my verses kindled emotions in many a heart that felt
like my own; but as one whom nature has not gifted, poor, ignoble, and
unlettered, am I not lucky to have found a little world of joyous hearts
and merry voices, who care for me % and speak of me, ay, and who would
give me a higher place in their esteem than to Jean Paul, or Goethe
himself?”
The friends had but time to pledge each other in a parting glass, when
the stage drove up by which Hans was to return to Baden. A few hurried
words, half cheering, half sorrowful, a close embrace, one long and
lingering squeeze of the hand,
“Farewell, kind Hanserl!”
“God guide thee, Franz!” and they parted.
Frank stood in the little “Platz,” where the crowd yet lingered,
watching the retiring “Post,” uncertain which, way to turn him.
He dreaded to find himself all alone, and yet he shrank from new
companionship. The newly risen moon and the calm air invited him to
pursue his road; so he set out once more, the very exercise being a
relief against his sad thoughts.
Few words are more easily spoken than “He went to seek his fortune;”
and what a whole world lies within the narrow compass! A world of
high-hearted hopes and doubting fear, of noble ambition to be won, and
glorious paths to be trod, mingled with tender thoughts of home and
those who made it such. What sustaining courage must be his who dares
this course and braves that terrible conflict the toughest that ever man
fought between his own bright coloring of life and the stern reality of
the world! How many hopes has he to abandon, how many illusions to
give up! How often is his faith to be falsified and his trustfulness
betrayed; and, worst of all, what a fatal change do these trials impress
upon himself, how different is he from what he had been!
Young and untried as Frank Dalton was in life, he was not altogether
unprepared for the vicissitudes that awaited him; his sister Nelly's
teachings had done much to temper the over-buoyant spirit of his nature,
and make him feel that he must draw upon that same courage to sustain
the present, rather than to gild the future.
His heart was sorrowful, too, at leaving a home where unitedly they
had, perhaps, borne up better against poverty. He felt for his own heart
revealed it how much can be endured in companionship, and how the burden
of misfortune like every other load is light when many bear it. Now
thinking of these things, now fancying the kind of life that might lie
before him, he marched along. Then he wondered whether the Count would
resemble his father. The Daltons were remarkable for strong traits of
family likeness, not alone in feature, but in character; and what a
comfort Frank felt in fancying that the old general would be a thorough
Dalton in frankness and kindliness of nature, easy in disposition, with
all the careless freedom of his own father! How he should love him, as
one of themselves!
It is a well-known fact, that certain families are remarkable above
others for the importance that they attach to the ties of kindred,
making the boast of relationship always superior to the claims of
self-formed friendships. This is perhaps more peculiarly the case among
those who live little in the world, and whose daily sayings and doings
are chiefly confined to the narrow circle of home. But yet it is
singular how long this prejudice for perhaps it deserves no better
name can stand the conflict of actual life. The Daltons were a special
instance of what we mean. Certain characteristics of look and feature
distinguished them all, and they all agreed in maintaining the claim of
relationship as the strongest bond of union; and it was strange into
how many minor channels this stream meandered. Every old ruin, every
monument, every fragment of armor, or ancient volume associated with
their name, assumed a kind of religious value in their eyes, and the
word Dalton was a talisman to exalt the veriest trifle into the rank of
relic. From his earliest infancy Frank had been taught these lessons.
They were the traditions of the parlor and the kitchen, and by the mere
force of repetition became a part of his very nature. Corrig-O'Neal was
the theme of every story. The ancient house of the family, and which,
although by time's changes it had fallen into the hands of the Godfreys
from whom his mother came was yet regarded with all the feelings of
ancient pride. Over and over again was he told of the once princely
state that his ancestors held there, the troops of retainers, the
mounted followers that ever accompanied them. The old house itself was
exalted to the rank of a palace, and its wide-spreading but neglected
grounds spoken of like the park of royalty.
To see this old house of his fathers, to behold with his own eyes the
seat of their once greatness, became the passion of the boy's heart.
Never did the Bedouin of the Desert long after Mecca with more
heart-straining desire. To such a pitch had this passion gained on
him, that, unable any longer to resist an impulse that neither left
his thoughts by day nor his dreams by night, he fled from his school at
Bruges, and when only ten years old made his way to Ostend, and under
pretence of seeking a return to his family, persuaded the skipper of a
trading-vessel to give him a passage to Limerick. It would take us too
far from our road already a long one were we to follow his wanderings
and tell of all the difficulties that beset the little fellow on his
lonely journey. Enough that we say, he did at last reach the goal, of
his hopes, and, after a journey of eight long days, find himself at the
ancient gate of Corrig-O'Neal.
At first the disappointment was dreadful. The proud mansion, of whose
glorious splendor his imagination had created an Oriental palace, was
an antiquated brick edifice, in front of which ran a long terrace, once
adorned with statues, but of which the pedestals alone remained. A few
hedges of yew, with here and there the fragments of a marble figure or
fountain, showed that the old French chateau taste had once prevailed
there; and of this a quaint straight avenue of lime-trees, reaching
directly from the door to the river, also bore evidence. The tone of
sadness and desertion was on everything; many of the lower windows were
walled up; the great door itself was fastened and barricaded in such a
way as to show it had been long disused. Not a creature was to be seen
stirring about the place, and save that at night the flickering light
of a candle might be descried from a small casement that looked upon the
garden, the house might have been deemed uninhabited. Perhaps something
in the mysterious desolation of the scene had its influence over the
boy's mind; but as hour by hour he lingered in those silent woods, and
lay in the deep grass, watching the cloud shadows as they stole along,
he grew fondly attached to the place; now losing himself in some revery
of the long past, now following out some half-remembered narrative of
his mother's childhood, when she herself dwelt there.
All his little resources of pocket-money expended, his clothes, save
such as he wore, sold, he could scarcely tear himself from a scene that
filled every avenue of his heart. The time, however, came, when a ship,
about to sail for the Scheldt, gave him the opportunity of returning
home; and now this was to be his last day at Corrig-O'Neal.
And what a day of conflicting thought was it! now half resolved to
approach the house, and ask to see his uncle, and now repelled by
remembering all his unkindness to his father. Then marvelling whether
some change might not have taken place in the old man's mind, and
whether in his lonely desolation he might not wish once more to see his
kindred near him.
He knew not what to do, and evening found him still undecided, and
sitting on a little rising spot, from which the view extended over the
garden at the back of the house, and whence he had often watched the
solitary light that marked the old man's vigils.
Wearied by long watching and thought, he fell asleep; and when he awoke
the light was gone, the light which hitherto had always burned till
daybreak! and from the darkness it must now be far from that hour.
While Frank wondered what this might mean, he was startled by hearing
footsteps near him at least so they sounded on the gravel-walk of the
garden, and in a few minutes after the grating sound of a key, and the
opening of a small door which led out into the wood. He now perceived
that a man was standing at the foot of the knoll, who seemed irresolute
and undecided; for he twice returned to the door, once introduced the
key, and again withdrew it, as if with a changed purpose. Suddenly he
appeared to have made up his mind, for, stooping down, he began to dig
with the greatest energy, stopping at intervals to listen, and again
continuing his work when satisfied that he was unobserved.
The hour the scene itself the evident secrecy of the man, almost
paralyzed the boy with terror; nor was it till long after the turf was
replaced, dry leaves and dead branches were strewn over the spot, and
the man himself gone, that Frank gained courage to move away. This he
did at first cautiously and timidly, and then with a speed that soon
carried him far away from the spot. The following day he was at sea;
and if at first the strange scene never left his thoughts, with time the
impression faded away, till at length it assumed the indistinctness of a
vision, or of some picture created by mere imagination.
When he did return home, he never revealed, except to Nelly, where he
had been, and the object for which he went; but, even to her, from some
strange love of mystery, he told nothing of the last night's experience:
this was a secret, which he hoarded like a miser's treasure, and loved
to think that he only knew of. The stirring events of a schoolboy's
life, at first, and subsequently the changeful scenes of opening
manhood, gradually effaced the impression of what he had seen, or merely
left it to all the indistinctness of a dream.
And thus are thoughts often sealed up in the memory for years unnoticed
and unknown till, after a long interval, they are all called forth, and
become the very pivots on which turns our destiny.