"She is a very true friend of mine."
"But she is more than that. Now, tell me, Gault, when is your honeymoon
to begin?"
"That is more than I can tell," he replied, slowly returning the
photograph to his pocket book.
"You must not wait to get rich," I observed. "It is when a man is
working for success that he most needs the sympathy and help of a good
wife."
"I know that," replied my friend; "but I am in a peculiar position. Some
day I will tell you all."
I saw that he was growing nervous, and changed the subject of
conversation.
Returning from the post office that afternoon to the old farm house, I
stopped for a little chat with Deacon Thompson, my good natured host,
who was mending his orchard fence; for the well loaded boughs of apples,
just beginning to assume their various tinges of red, yellow, or russet,
offered a strong temptation to the cattle in the adjoining pasture.
Incidentally I inquired regarding an old excavation which I had noticed
on the hill near an unfrequented road. This excavation had apparently
once served for a cellar, although most of the stones had been removed,
and the sheep easily ran down its now sloping and grassy sides. In close
proximity was a deep well, over the top of which had been placed a huge,
flat stone. Overshadowing both cellar and well were three ancient elms,
storm-beaten and lightning-cleft, but still standing as if to guard the
very solitude which was unbroken save by the tinkling bell, which told
whither the farmer's flock was straying. From Mr. Thompson I learned the
history connected with this scene.
Twenty years before he was born, his father's folks saw, one morning in
March, a smoke curling above the tops of the elms which were just
visible over the brow of the hill. Quickly going to the scene, they
found the house burned to the ground. The occupants were an old man,
named Peter Colburn, and his wife; and they, together with a traveller,
who had obtained lodging there for the night, were all burned with the
house. The stranger's horse and saddle were found in the barn, some
little distance from the house, but there was no clew to his identity.
There were only a few people then who had settled in this bleak region,
and there was no funeral other than the assembling of a half dozen
together, who dug a grave within fifty feet from the elms, and there
laid the charred remains of the unfortunate victims. I had seen a small,
rough, unlettered stone standing there, but did not before know its
meaning.
The next day I related the bit of tragic history to Christopher Gault,
and we strolled over the hill to its scene.
"What a magnificent view!" he exclaimed, as we came to the place.
Certainly it could not be finer. We stood upon an elevated plateau, from
which the prospect in either direction was beautiful and grand. To the
north could be seen the graceful curves of the Green Mountain range,
gradually growing fainter and of paler blue as the eye followed them to
at least seventy miles away.
Farther to the east rose the majestic form of Monadnock, if not the
highest, one of the very noblest peaks in the Granite State. In an
opposite direction, and nearly one hundred miles from Monadnock, stood
old Greylock, the greatest elevation in Massachusetts; while much nearer
by--in fact, seeming almost at our feet when compared with these immense
ranges--lay the charming Deerfield valley, up from which rose the
curling smoke of the locomotive as it moved steadily westward, until
hidden from view by a sudden entrance into Hoosac Tunnel.
The view so absorbed our attention for a time that we hardly noticed our
immediate surroundings. When we did so we began to make an examination.
Gault, with characteristic curiosity, began a search in the bottom of
the old cellar. Suddenly he emerged.
"A veritable relic!" he exclaimed. "See! an old knife; and here on its
handle is a name. Can you read it?" and he handed it to me.
A minute's brisk scouring made it quite plain.
"I have it now," I said. "It is Samuel Wickham."
As I read the inscription I was startled to see the color almost
instantly leave Gault's face.
"Samuel Wickham! You don't mean It. Let me see," and he grasped the
knife from my hand.
"It is. You are right," he said. "You do not understand my interest
in this matter," he added, evidently a little embarrassed at his own
manner. "It was the name that struck me. Probably this knife belonged
to the unfortunate stranger," and he put it carefully in his pocket.
"Do you know just when the house was burned,--did Mr. Thompson say?" he
inquired, trying hard to control his excitement.
"Not exactly," I replied; "but he told me that he had a record
somewhere. You could probably ascertain from him."
The next morning I went trouting alone, and did not return to the house
until afternoon. When I did so I found a note awaiting me.
It proved to be from my friend, and said that for special reasons he had
decided to return to the city that day. He was sorry not to see me
again, but hoped to do so before long. I, in turn, was quite anxious to
meet him again, and learn why he had returned so unexpectedly, and to
know the cause of his singular manner upon finding the rusty knife. The
two events were naturally connected in my mind, and also our previous
conversation when he had shown me the picture of the young lady.
Three weeks later I was in Boston, and almost at once visited Mr.
Gault's office at No.--Water street. To my disappointment, I learned
that he had just taken passage for England.
I hoped to see him when he returned, but was not destined to do so until
two years later.
Before relating my unexpected meeting with him in 1881, I must describe
a certain somewhat remarkable case which I was so fortunate as to have
put into my hands shortly after my return from the country.