IN WHICH PHIL MORALIZES OVER HIS LOSS, AND HEARS FROM ST. LOUIS.
The bag which had contained my gold was distended as though the
treasure were still there; but it was light, and I was satisfied that
it contained nothing more substantial than paper. I need not say that a
feeling akin to horror chilled the very blood in my veins, for without
this money it seemed to me that all my plans would be defeated. I could
not travel in Europe without it. I could not even purchase the steamer
ticket for which I had spoken.
Grief, despair, and even shame, overwhelmed me, and I dropped into my
chair utterly disconsolate for the moment. I held the bag in my hand,
and felt that the solid, substantial hopes with which I had cheered
and gladdened my soul had suddenly changed into airy phantoms. My gold
had become waste paper. If I ever felt like using wicked language,
it was then; but I thank God I did not profane his name, and pollute
my own lips by any uttered word of irreverence. But I did feel as
though God had forgotten and deserted me; as though he had cruelly and
unreasonably mocked my hopes. Yet these thoughts were but the momentary
spasm of a disappointed soul, and I trembled when I realized that such
wickedness was in my heart.
God had given me all that I was and all that I had. What I had lost was
not the half even of my worldly wealth, and it was impious to repine,
though but for an instant. When I weighed this handful of gold against
all my other blessings, against my Christian father, who prayed for me
morning and night, and against the good I had been permitted to do for
myself and others, the treasure was but a trifle. If it had cost me two
years to save it, I was thankful that it was not the only saving of
that precious period.
I rebuked myself severely for the wicked thoughts which had been
engendered by my misfortune, and tried to take a more reasonable view
of the loss I had sustained. I thanked God for all his mercies, and
asked for strength to sustain me in this new trial. Having conquered
the rebellious thoughts which the loss occasioned, I opened the bag,
and attempted to fathom the mystery of its emptiness. There was nothing
in it but an old newspaper rolled up into a ball. That was the only
fact I had to work with. The bag had contained fifteen hundred dollars
in ten and twenty dollar gold pieces when I left St. Louis; and the
money was all right when I counted it on board of the steamer.
It was evident, therefore, that I had been robbed after the boat
entered the Ohio River; but whether at Cincinnati, Parkersburg,
Baltimore, Philadelphia, or New York, I had no idea whatever. I threw
the bag back into the trunk. My father had insisted that the safest way
for me to convey my money to New York was in the form of a draft; but I
was afraid that, being a minor, the banker would refuse to pay me, or
that something else might occur to make me trouble. I could not help
thinking again that fathers are almost always right. At any rate I was
wrong, and too late I regretted that I had persisted in my own way.
I had lost my money by it, though my father would have been just as
correct in his position if I had not lost it.
While I was thinking of the disagreeable subject, I unrolled the ball
into which the newspaper had been formed. One of the first things that
attracted my attention as I did so, was the announcement of the "Heavy
Forgery in St. Louis." One of the corners of the paper was lapped over
in printing it, and this circumstance enabled me to identify it as the
one I had purchased in Cincinnati, and read after I came on board of
the steamer. One more fact was added to my knowledge of the robbery. My
trunk had been rifled after I left Cincinnati.
This fact did not help me much; but it suggested an examination of
the lock on my trunk. I could see the marks of some sharp instrument
in the brass around the key-hole, and I remembered that I had had
some difficulty in opening the trunk just before the collision on the
Ohio. If the robber had left my trunk unlocked, I had not discovered
the fact. The bolt had evidently been moved back by a bent file, or
something of that kind. I cudgelled my brains severely to recall all
the circumstances of my last day on board of the steamer. I had opened
my trunk after dinner, and read all the letters of Ella Gracewood,
not only because I had nothing else to do, but because it was the
pleasantest occupation in the world to me. I was persuaded that my bag
had been emptied that afternoon, probably while I was walking on the
hurricane-deck, where I spent an hour just before the collision in
obtaining my daily exercise, walking back and forth.
I could not help connecting the robbery with "Mr. A. McGregor;" but
it was too late now to do anything. The money had gone, and so had
Mr. A. McGregor. I could not find him if I tried. It was better for
me to regard the treasure as lost, than to entertain the absurd
proposition of finding it. What should I do? It was impossible to go
to Europe without money, and a liberal supply of it, too. I still had
two thousand dollars in the savings bank in St. Louis; but I regarded
this as my capital for the future, when I should have an opportunity
of going into business. I did not like to draw it, and I did not like
the delay which it would require to obtain it. If I wrote to my father
immediately, it would require a week to receive an answer from him.
Then he would be obliged to give notice to the savings bank, and wait
for regular days for drawing out money.
I must certainly wait a week, and perhaps a fortnight, before I could
receive funds from St. Louis. I might miss my mother at Nice, and I was
tolerably certain to miss the Gracewoods at Messina. I was vexed at the
thought of this delay, and I am not sure but the fear of not seeing
the Gracewoods fretted me more than the contingency of not meeting my
mother, for the latter was to remain in Europe another summer, and I
could follow her wherever she went.
Worse, if possible, than all this, I was ashamed of myself, because
I had permitted myself to be robbed. It is not for me to say whether
or not I am conceited; but I certainly had a great deal of pride of
character. A mistake was not half so bad as a crime, in my estimation;
but it was still very bad. I did not wish to be regarded, even by my
father, whose judgment would be very lenient, as a young man who had
not the ability to take care of himself. I did not like to confess that
in neglecting the advice of my father, and following the behests of my
own head, I had come to grief. Without doubt I was wrong; but I had
been taught to depend solely upon myself, and to rely upon no arm but
that of God. A blunder, therefore, was more to me than it would have
been under other circumstances. While I was thinking of the matter,
there was a knock at my door. It was Captain Farraday, and I admitted
him.
"Well, Mr. Farringford, you seem to be busy," said he, glancing at my
clothing laid upon the bed and chairs, as I had taken it from my trunk.
"Not very busy, sir, except in my head," I replied.
"Young men's heads are always busy," he added, with a jolly laugh, for
he was still under the influence of the liquor he had drank, though he
was not much intoxicated.
"I am full of misfortunes, mishaps, and catastrophes," I answered.
"You!"
"Yes, sir."
"You don't mean it! If I were a young fellow like you, I should be as
jolly as a lark always and everywhere. In fact, I am now."
But I could not help feeling that his whiskey was the inspiration of
his merriment, and that he must have times when the reaction bore
severely upon him.
"I have met with a heavy loss," I continued.
"Sorry for that; what is it?"
"I had a bag containing fifteen hundred dollars in gold in my trunk. It
is gone now."
"Gone!" exclaimed he.
"The bag is empty."
"I am sorry for it; but I think you almost deserve to lose it for
leaving it in your trunk."
"I acknowledge that I was imprudent; but I thought it was safe there,
because no one knew that I had it."
I told him enough of my story to enable him to understand my situation.
"It's a hard case; but you know it's no use to cry for spilt milk; only
don't spill any more."
"But all my plans are defeated. I can't go to Europe without money."
"That's true; a man wants money in Europe, if he don't in America.
Where did you say your mother was?"
"At Nice."
"Just so; you can go in my vessel to Palermo, and then to Genoa and
Nice by the steamers. If you want to learn how to knot and splice,
reef and steer, you shall go before the mast and work your passage. It
will do you good, besides what you learn."
"But I shall have no money when I get to Nice," I suggested.
"What of that? You say your mother belongs to a rich family, and of
course she has money enough."
This idea struck me very favorably. I had about sixty dollars in my
pocket, which would more than pay my expenses from Palermo to Messina,
where Mr. Gracewood would lend me a further sum. If I missed them, I
could even go to Nice, where my mother would be glad to supply all my
wants. I liked the plan, but I was not quite prepared to decide the
matter. The Michigan would sail the next day, and I could at least
think of it over night.
Captain Farraday pressed the matter upon me, and declared it was a
great pity that a good sailor should be spoiled to make an indifferent
merchant or mechanic. I promised to give him an answer the next
morning; and the prospect of being a sailor, even for the brief period
of three or four weeks, seemed to be some compensation for the loss of
my money. I was not disposed to be a fatalist; but it passed through my
mind once, that, as I was destined to be a sailor, I had lost my money
so that I might not miss my destiny.
I went down to supper with Captain Farraday, who still plied his
favorite topic, and gave me a rose-colored view of "a life on the ocean
wave." He stopped at the bar on the way to the dining-room, and he was
not agreeable company after he had taken one more dram. After supper,
I left him, and went to the post office, for I had been expecting a
letter from my father ever since I arrived in the city.
I found one this time. It was full of good advice and instructions,
forgotten before I left St. Louis. He gave me fuller particulars than I
had obtained from the newspaper in regard to the forgery of Mr. Lamar's
name. I learned with surprise that Mr. Ben Waterford was now strongly
suspected of the crime, and his visits to Mr. Lamar, ostensibly to sell
land, were really to enable him to see the check book of the firm. The
evidence was not conclusive, but it was tolerably strong.