"----Misplaced in life,
I know not what I could have been, but feel
I am not what I should be--let it end."
Sardanapalus.
Glad enough was I to find the quiet and domestic character of my vessel
restored. Lucy had vanished as soon as it was proper; but, agreeably to
her request, I got the sloop's head down-stream, and began our
return-passage, without even thinking of putting a foot on the then
unknown land of Albany. Marble was too much accustomed to submit without
inquiry to the movements of the vessel he was in, to raise any objections;
and the Wallingford, her boat in tow, was soon turning down with the tide,
aided by a light westerly wind, on her homeward course. This change kept
all on deck so busy, that it was some little time ere I saw Lucy again.
When we did meet, however, I found her sad, and full of apprehension.
Grace had evidently been deeply hurt by Rupert's deportment. The effect on
her frame was such, that it was desirable to let her be as little
disturbed as possible. Lucy hoped she might fall asleep; for, like an
infant, her exhausted physical powers sought relief in this resource,
almost as often as the state of her mind would permit. Her existence,
although I did not then know it, was like that of the flame which flickers
in the air, and which is endangered by the slightest increase of the
current to which the lamp may be exposed.
We succeeded in getting across the Overslaugh without touching, and had
got down among the islands below Coejiman's,[1] when we were met by the
new flood. The wind dying away to a calm, we were compelled to select a
berth, and anchor. As soon as we were snug, I sought an interview with
Lucy; but the dear girl sent me word by Chloe that Grace was dozing, and
that she could not see me just at that moment, as her presence in the
cabin was necessary in order to maintain silence. On receiving this
message, I ordered the boat hauled up alongside; Marble, myself and Neb
got in; when the black sculled us ashore--Chloe grinning at the latter's
dexterity, as with one hand, and a mere play of the wrist, he caused the
water to foam under the bows of our little bark.
[Footnote 1: Queemans, as pronounced. This is a Dutch, not an Indian
name, and belongs to a respectable New York family.]
The spot where we landed was a small but lovely gravelly cove, that was
shaded by three or four enormous weeping-willows, and presented the very
picture of peace and repose. It was altogether a retired and rural bit,
there being near it no regular landing, no reels for seines, nor any of
those signs that denote a place of resort. A single cottage stood on a
small natural terrace, elevated some ten or twelve feet above the rich
bottom that sustained the willows. This cottage was the very _beau idéal_
of rustic neatness and home comfort. It was of stone, one story in height,
with a high pointed roof, and had a Dutch-looking gable that faced the
river, and which contained the porch and outer door. The stones were
white as the driven snow, having been washed a few weeks before. The
windows had the charm of irregularity; and everything about the dwelling
proclaimed a former century, and a regime different from that under which
we were then living. In fact, the figures 1698, let in as iron braces to
the wall of the gable, announced that the house was quite as old as the
second structure at Clawbonny.
The garden of this cottage was not large, but it was in admirable order.
It lay entirely in the rear of the dwelling; and behind it, again, a small
orchard, containing about a hundred trees, on which the fruit began to
show itself in abundance, lay against the sort of amphitheatre that almost
enclosed this little nook against the intrusion and sight of the rest of
the world. There were also half a dozen huge cherry trees, from which the
fruit had not yet altogether disappeared, near the house, to which they
served the double purpose of ornament and shade. The out-houses seemed to
be as old as the dwelling, and were in quite as good order.
As we drew near the shore, I directed Neb to cease sculling, and sat
gazing at this picture of retirement, and, apparently, of content, while
the boat drew towards the gravelly beach, under the impetus
already received.
"This is a hermitage I think I could stand, Miles," said Marble, whose
look had not been off the spot since the moment we left the sloop's side.
"This is what I should call a human hermitage, and none of your out and
out solitudes Room for pigs and poultry; a nice gravelly beach for your
boat; good fishing in the offing, I'll answer for it; a snug
shoulder-of-mutton sort of a house; trees as big as a two-decker's lower
masts; and company within hail, should a fellow happen to take it into his
head that he was getting melancholy. This is just the spot I would like to
fetch-up in, when it became time to go into dock. What a place to smoke a
segar in is that bench up yonder, under the cherry tree; and grog must
have a double flavour alongside of that spring of fresh water!"
"You could become the owner of this very place, Moses, and then we should
be neighbours, and might visit each other by water. It cannot be much more
than fifty miles from this spot to Clawbonny."
"I dare say, now, that they would think of asking, for a place like this,
as much money as would buy a good wholesome ship--a regular A. No. 1."
"No such thing; a thousand or twelve hundred dollars would purchase the
house, and all the land we can see--some twelve or fifteen acres, at the
most. You have more than two thousand salted away, I know, Moses, between
prize-money, wages, adventures, and other matters."
"I could hold my head up under two thousand, of a sartainty. I wish the
place was a little nearer Clawbonny, say eight or ten miles off; and then
I do think I should talk to the people about a trade."
"It's quite unnecessary, after all. I have quite as snug a cove, near the
creek bluff at Clawbonny, and will build a house for you there, you shall
not tell from a ship's cabin; that would be more to your fancy."
"I've thought of that, too, Miles, and at one time fancied it would be a
prettyish sort of an idee; but it won't stand logarithms, at all. You may
build a room that shall have its cabin _look_, but you can't build one
that'll have a cabin _natur_' You may get carlins, and transoms, and
lockers and bulkheads all right; but where are you to get your motion?
What's a cabin without motion? It would soon be like the sea in the calm
latitudes, offensive to the senses. No! none of your bloody motionless
cabins for me. If I'm afloat, let me be afloat; if I'm ashore, let me be
ashore."
Ashore we were by this time, the boat's keel grinding gently on the
pebbles of the beach. We landed and walked towards the cottage, there
being nothing about the place to forbid our taking this liberty. I told
Marble we would ask for a drink of milk, two cows being in sight, cropping
the rich herbage of a beautiful little pasture. This expedient at first
seemed unnecessary, no one appearing about the place to question our
motives, or to oppose our progress. When we reached the door of the
cottage, we found it open, and could look within without violating any of
the laws of civilization. There was no vestibule, or entry; but the door
communicated directly with a room of some size, and which occupied the
whole front of the building. I dare say this single room was twenty feet
square, besides being of a height a little greater than was then customary
in buildings of that class. This apartment was neatness itself. It had a
home-made, but really pretty, carpet on the floor; contained a dozen
old-fashioned, high-back chairs, in some dark wood; two or three tables,
in which one might see his face; a couple of mirrors of no great size, but
of quaint gilded ornaments; a beaufet with some real china in it; and the
other usual articles of a country residence that was somewhat above the
ordinary farm-houses of the region, and yet as much below the more modest
of the abodes of the higher class. I supposed the cottage to be the
residence of some small family that had seen more of life than was
customary with the mere husbandman, and yet not enough to raise it much
above the level of the husbandman's homely habits.
We were looking in from the porch, on this scene of rural peace and
faultless neatness, when an inner door opened in the deliberate manner
that betokens age, and the mistress of the cottage-appeared. She was a
woman approaching seventy, of middle size, a quiet but firm step, and an
air of health. Her dress was of the fashion of the previous century,
plain, but as neat as everything around her--a spotless white apron
seeming to bid defiance to the approach of anything that could soil its
purity. The countenance of this old woman certainly did not betoken any of
the refinement which is the result of education and good company; but it
denoted benevolence, a kind nature, and feeling. We were saluted without
surprise, and invited in, to be seated.
"It isn't often that sloops anchor here," said the old woman-lady, it
would be a stretch of politeness to call her--their favour_yte_ places
being higher up, and lower down, the river."
"And how do you account for that, mother?" asked Marble, who seated
himself and addressed the mistress of the cottage with a seaman's
frankness. "To my fancy, this is the best anchorage I 've seen in many a
day; one altogether to be coveted. One might be as much alone as he liked,
in a spot like this, without absolutely turning your bloody hermit."
The old woman gazed at Marble like one who scarce know what to make of
such an animal; and yet her look was mild and indulgent.
"I account for the boatmen's preferring other places to this," she said,
"by the circumstance that there is no tavern here; while there is one two
miles above, and another two miles below us."
"Your remark that there is no tavern here, reminds me of the necessity of
apologizing for coming so boldly to your door," I answered; "but we
sailors mean no impertinence, though we are so often guilty of it
in landing."
"You are heartily welcome. I am glad to see them that understand how to
treat an old woman kindly, and know how to pity and pardon them that do
not. At my time of life we get to learn the value of fair words and good
treatment, for it's only a short time it will be in our power to show
either to our fellow-creatures."
"Your favourable disposition to your fellows comes from living all your
days in a spot as sweet as this."
"I would much rather think that it comes from God. He alone is the source
of all that is good within us."
"Yet a spot like this must have its influence on a character. I dare say
you have lived long in this very house, which, old us you profess to be,
seems to be much older than yourself. It has probably been your abode ever
since your marriage?"
"And long before, sir. I was born in this house, as was my father before
me. You are right in saying that I have dwelt in it ever since my
marriage, for I dwelt in it long before."
"This is not very encouraging for my friend here, who took such a fancy to
your cottage, as we came ashore, as to wish to own it; but I scarce think
he will venture to purchase, now he knows how dear it must be to you."
"And has your friend no home--no place in which to put his family?"
"Neither home nor family, my good mother." answered Marble for himself;
"and so much the greater reason, you will think, why I ought to begin to
think of getting both as soon as possible. I never had father or mother,
to my knowledge; nor house, nor home of any sort, but a ship. I forgot; I
was a hermit once, and set myself up in that trade, with a whole island to
myself; but I soon gave up all to natur', and got out of that scrape as
fast as I could. The business didn't suit me."
The old woman looked at Marble intently. I could see by her countenance
that the off-hand, sincere, earnest manner of the mate had taken some
unusual hold of her feelings.
"Hermit!" the good woman repeated with curiosity; "I have often heard and
read of such people; but you are not at all like them I have fancied to
be hermits."
"Another proof I undertook a business for which I was not fit. I suppose a
man before he sets up for a hermit ought to know something of his
ancestors, as one looks to the pedigree of a horse in order to find out
whether he is fit for a racer. Now, as I happen to know nothing of mine,
it is no wonder I fell into a mistake. It's an awkward thing, old lady,
for a man to be born without a name."
The eye of our hostess was still bright and full of animation, and I never
saw a keener look than she fastened on the mate, as he delivered himself
in this, one of his usual fits of misanthropical feeling.
"And were _you_ born without a name?" she asked, after gazing intently at
the other.
"Sartain. Everybody is born with only one name; but I happened to be born
without any name at all."
"This is so extr'or'nary, sir," added our old hostess, more interested
than I could have supposed possible for a stranger to become in Marble's
rough bitterness, "that I should like to hear how such a thing could be."
"I am quite ready to tell you all about it, mother; but, as one good turn
deserves another, I shall ask you first to answer me a few questions about
the ownership of this house, and cove, and orchard. When you have told
your story, I am ready to tell mine."
"I see how it is," said the old woman, in alarm. "You are sent here by Mr.
Van Tassel, to inquire about the money due on the mortgage, and to learn
whether it is likely to be paid or not."
"We are not sent here at all, my good old lady," I now thought it time to
interpose, for the poor woman was very obviously much alarmed, and in a
distress that even her aged and wrinkled countenance could not entirely
conceal. "We are just what you see--people belonging to that sloop, who
have come ashore to stretch their legs, and have never heard of any Mr.
Van Tassel, or any money, or any mortgage."
"Thank Heaven for that!" exclaimed the old woman, seeming to relieve her
mind, as well as body, by a heavy sigh. "'Squire Van Tassel is a hard man;
and a widow woman, with no relative at hand but a grand-darter that is
just sixteen, is scarce able to meet him. My poor old husband always
maintained that the money had been paid; but, now he is dead and gone,
'Squire Van Tassel brings forth the bond and mortgage, and says, 'If you
can prove that these are paid, I'm willing to give them up.'"
"This is so strange an occurrence, my dear old lady," I observed, "that
you have only to make us acquainted with the facts, to get another
supporter in addition to your grand-daughter. It is true, I am a stranger,
and have come here purely by accident; but Providence sometimes appears to
work in this mysterious manner, and I have a strong presentiment we may be
of use to you. Relate your difficulties, then; and you shall have the best
legal advice in the State, should your case require it."
The old woman seemed embarrassed; but, at the same time, she seemed
touched. We were utter strangers to her, it is true; yet there is a
language in sympathy which goes beyond that of the tongue, and which,
coming _from_ the heart, goes _to_ the heart. I was quite sincere in my
offers, and this sincerity appears to have produced its customary fruits.
I was believed; and, after wiping away a tear or two that forced
themselves into her eyes, our hostess answered me as frankly as I had
offered my aid.
"You do not look like 'Squire Van Tassel's men, for they seem to me to
think the place is theirs already. Such craving, covetous creatur's I
never before laid eyes on! I hope I may trust you?"
"Depend on us, mother," cried Marble, giving the old woman a cordial
squeeze of the hand. "My heart is in this business, for my mind was half
made up, at first sight, to own this spot myself--by honest purchase,
you'll understand me, and not by any of your land-shark tricks--and, such
being the case, you can easily think I'm not inclined to let this Mr.
Tassel have it,"
"It would be almost as sorrowful a thing to _sell_ this place," the good
woman answered, her countenance confirming all she said in words, "as to
have it torn from me by knaves. I have told you that even my father was
born in this very house. I was his only child; and when God called him
away, which he did about twelve years after my marriage, the little farm
came to me, of course. Mine it would have been at this moment, without let
or hindrance of any sort, but for a fault committed in early youth. Ah! my
friends, it is hopeless to do evil, and expect to escape the
consequences."
"The evil _you_ have done, my good mother," returned Marble, endeavouring
to console the poor creature, down whose cheeks the tears now fairly began
to run; "the evil you have done, my good mother, can be no great matter.
If it was a question about a rough tar like myself, or even of Miles
there, who's a sort of sea-saint, something might be made of it, I make no
doubt; but your account must be pretty much all credit, and no debtor."
"That is a state that befalls none of earth, my young friend,"--Marble
_was_ young, compared to his companion, though a plump fifty,--"My sin was
no less than to break one of God's commandments."
I could see that my mate was a good deal confounded at this ingenuous
admission; for, in his eyes, breaking the commandments was either killing,
stealing, or blaspheming. The other sins of the decalogue he had come by
habit to regard as peccadilloes.
"I think this must be a mistake, mother," he said, in a sort of consoling
tone. "You may have fallen into some oversights, or mistakes; but this
breaking of the commandments is rather serious sort of work."
"Yet I broke the fifth; I forgot to honour my father and mother.
Nevertheless, the Lord has been gracious; for my days have already reached
threescore-and-ten. But this is His goodness--not any merit of my own!"
"Is it not a proof that the error has been forgiven?" I ventured to
remark. "If penitence can purchase peace, I feel certain you have earned
that relief."
"One never knows! I think this calamity of the mortgage, and the danger I
run of dying without a roof to cover my head, may be all traced up to that
one act of disobedience, I have been a mother myself--may say I am a
mother now, for my grand-daughter is as dear to me as was her blessed
mother--and it is when we look _down_, rather than when we look _up_, as
it might be, that we get to understand the true virtue of this
commandment."
"If it were impertinent curiosity that instigates the question, my old
friend," I added, "it would not be in my power to look you in the face, as
I do now, while begging you to let me know your difficulties. Tell them in
your own manner, but tell them with confidence; for, I repeat, we have the
power to assist you, and can command the best legal advice of
the country."
Again the old woman looked at me intently through her spectacles; then, as
if her mind was made up to confide in our honesty, she disburthened it of
its secrets.
"It would be wrong to tell you a part of my story, without telling you
all," she began; "for you might think Van Tassel and his set are alone to
blame, while my conscience tells me that little has happened that is not a
just punishment for my great sin. You'll have patience, therefore, with an
old woman, and hear her whole tale; for mine is not a time of life to
mislead any. The days of white-heads are numbered; and, was it not for
Kitty, the blow would not be quite so hard on me. You must know, we are
Dutch by origin--come of the ancient Hollanders of the colony--and were
Van Duzers by name. It's like, friends," added the good woman, hesitating,
"that you are Yankees by birth?"
"I cannot say I am," I answered, "though of English extraction. My family
is long of New York, but it does not mount back quite as far as the time
of the Hollanders."
"And your friend? He is silent; perhaps he is of New England? I would not
wish to hurt his feelings, for my story will bear a little hard, perhaps,
on his love of home."
"Never mind me, mother, but rowse it all up like entered cargo," said
Marble, in his usual bitter way when alluding to his own birth. "There's
not the man breathing that one can speak more freely before on such
matters, than Moses Marble."
"Marble!--that's a _hard_ name," returned the woman slightly smiling; "but
a _name_ is not a _heart_. My parents were Dutch; and you may have heard
how it was before the Revolution, between the Dutch and the Yankees. Near
neighbours, they did not love each other. The Yankees said the Dutch were
fools, and the Dutch said the Yankees were knaves. Now, as you may easily
suppose, I was born before the Revolution, when King George II. was on the
throne and ruled the country; and though it was long after the English got
to be our masters, it was before our people had forgotten their language
and their traditions. My father himself was born after the English
governors came among us, as I've heard him say; but it mattered not--he
loved Holland to the last, and the customs of his fathers."
"All quite right, mother," said Marble, a little impatiently; "but what of
all that? It's as nat'ral for a Dutchman to love Holland, as it is for an
Englishman to love Hollands. I've been in the Low Countries, and must say
it's a muskrat sort of a life the people lead; neither afloat nor ashore."
The old woman regarded Marble with more respect after this declaration;
for in that day, a travelled man was highly esteemed among us. In her
eyes, it was a greater exploit to have seen Amsterdam, than it would now
be to visit Jerusalem. Indeed, it is getting rather discreditable to a man
of the world not to have seen the Pyramids, the Red Sea, and the Jordan.
"My father loved it not the less, though he never saw the land of his
ancestors," resumed the old woman. "Notwithstanding the jealousy of the
Yankees, among us Dutch, and the mutual dislike, many of the former came
among us to seek their fortunes. They are not a home-staying people, it
would seem; and I cannot deny that cases have happened in which they have
been known to get away the farms of some of the Netherlands stock, in a
way that it would have been better not to have happened."
"You speak considerately, my dear woman," I remarked, "and like one that
has charity for all human failing."
"I ought to do so for my own sins, and I ought to do so to them of New
England; for my own husband was of that race."
"Ay, now the story is coming round regularly, Miles," said Marble, nodding
his head in approbation. "It will touch on love next, and, if trouble do
not follow, set me down as an ill-nat'red old bachelor. Love in a man's
heart is like getting heated cotton, or shifting ballast, into a
ship's hold."
"I must confess to it," continued our hostess, smiling in spite of her
real sorrows--sorrows that were revived by thus recalling the events of
her early life--"a young man of Yankee birth came among us as a
schoolmaster, when I was only fifteen. Our people were anxious enough to
have us all taught to read English, for many had found the disadvantage of
being ignorant of the language of their rulers, and of the laws. I was
sent to George Wetmore's school, like most of the other young people of
the neighbourhood, and remained his scholar for three years. If you were
on the hill above the orchard yonder, you might see the school-house at
this moment; for it is only a short walk from our place, and a walk that I
made four times a day for just three years."
"One can see how the land lies now," cried Marble, lighting a segar, for
he thought no apology necessary for smoking under a Dutch roof. "The
master taught his scholar something more than he found in the
spelling-book, or the catechism. We'll take your word about the
school-house, seeing it is out of view."
"It was out of sight, truly, and that may have been the reason my parents
took it so hard when George Wetmore asked their leave to marry me. This
was not done until he had walked home with me, or as near home as the brow
on yon hill, for a whole twelvemonth, and had served a servitude almost as
long, and as patient, as that of Jacob for Rachel."
"Well, mother, how did the old people receive the question? Like
good-natured parents, I hope, for George's sake."
"Rather say like the children of Holland, judging of the children of New
England. They would not hear of it, but wished me to marry my own cousin,
Petrus Storm, who was not greatly beloved even in his own family."
"Of course you down anchor, and said you never would quit the moorings of
home?"
"If I rightly understand you, sir, I did something very different. I got
privately married to George, and he kept school near a twelvemonth longer,
up behind the hill, though most of the young women were taken away from
his teaching."
"Ay, the old way; the door was locked after the horse was stolen! Well,
you were married, mother----"
"After a time, it was necessary for me to visit a kinswoman who lived a
little down the river. There my first child was born, unknown to my
parents; and George gave it in charge to a poor woman who had lost her own
babe, for we were still afraid to let our secret be known to my parents.
Now commenced the punishment for breaking the fifth commandment."
"How's that, Miles?" demanded Moses. "Is it ag'in the commandments for a
married woman to have a son?"
"Certainly not, my friend; though it is a breach of the commandments not
to honour our parents. This good woman alludes to her marrying contrary to
the wishes of her father and mother."
"Indeed I do, sir, and dearly have I been punished for it. In a few weeks
I returned home, and was followed by the sad news of the death of my
first-born. The grief of these tidings drew the secret from me; and nature
spoke so loud in the hearts of my poor parents, that they forgave all,
took George home, and ever afterwards treated him as if he also had been
their own child. But it was too late; had it happened a few weeks earlier,
my own precious babe might have been saved to me."
"You cannot know that, mother; we all die when our time comes."
"His time had not come. The miserable wretch to whom George trusted the
boy, exposed him among strangers, to save herself trouble, and to obtain
twenty dollars at as cheap a rate as possible----"
"Hold!" I interrupted. "In the name of Heaven, my good woman, in what year
did this occur?"
Marble looked at me in astonishment, though he clearly had glimpses of the
object of my question.
"It was in the month of June, 17--. For thirty long, long years, I
supposed my child had actually died; and then the mere force of conscience
told me the truth. The wretched woman could not carry the secret with her
into the grave, and she sent for me to hear the sad revelation."
"Which was to say that she left the child in a basket, on a tombstone,
in a marble-worker's yard, in town; in the yard of a man whose name was
Durfee?" I said, as rapidly as I could speak.
"She did, indeed! though it is a marvel to me that a stranger should know
this. What will be God's pleasure next?"
Marble groaned. He hid his face in his hands, while the poor woman looked
from one of us to the other, in bewildered expectation of what was to
follow. I could not leave her long in doubt; but, preparing her for what
was to follow, by little and little I gave her to understand that the man
she saw before her was her son. After half a century of separation, the
mother and child had thus been thrown together by the agency of an
inscrutable Providence! The reader will readily anticipate the character
of the explanations that succeeded. Of the truth of the circumstances
there could not be a shadow of doubt, when everything was related and
compared. Mrs. Wetmore had ascertained from her unfaithful nurse the
history of her child as far as the alms-house; but thirty years had left a
gap in the information she received, and it was impossible for her to
obtain the name under which he had left that institution. The Revolution
was just over when she made her application, and it was thought that some
of the books had been taken away by a refugee. Still, there were a plenty
of persons to supply traditions and conjecture; and so anxious were she
and her husband to trace these groundless reports to their confirmation or
refutation, that much money and time were thrown away in the fruitless
attempts. At length, one of the old attendants of the children's
department was discovered, who professed to know the whole history of the
child brought from the stone-cutter's yard. This woman doubtless was
honest, but her memory had deceived her. She said that the boy had been
called Stone, instead of Marble; a mistake that was natural enough in
itself, but which was probably owing to the fact that another child of the
first name had really left the institution a few months before Moses took
his leave. This Aaron Stone had been traced, first, as an apprentice to a
tradesman; thence into a regiment of foot in the British army, which
regiment had accompanied the rest of the forces, at the evacuation,
November 25th, 1783.
The Wetmores fancied they were now on the track of their child. He was
traced down to a period within a twelvemonth of that of the search, and
was probably to be found in England, still wearing the livery of the king.
After a long consultation between the disconsolate parents, it was
determined that George Wetmore should sail for England in the hope of
recovering their son. But, by this time, money was scarce. These worthy
people were enabled to live in comfort on their little farm, but they were
not rich in cash. All the loose coin was gone in the previous search, and
even a small debt had been contracted to enable them to proceed as far as
they had. No alternative remained but to mortgage their home. This was
done with great reluctance; but what will not a parent do for his child? A
country lawyer, of the name of Van Tassel, was ready enough to advance
five hundred on a place that was worth quite three thousand dollars. This
man was one of the odious class of country usurers, a set of cormorants
that is so much worse than their town counterparts, because their victims
are usually objects of real, and not speculative distress, and as ignorant
and unpractised as they are necessitous. It is wonderful with what
far-sighted patience one of these wretches will bide his time, in order to
effect a favourite acquisition. Mrs. Wetmore's little farm was very
desirable to this 'Squire Van Tassel, for reasons in addition to its
intrinsic value; and for years nothing could be kinder and more
neighbourly than his indulgence. Interest was allowed to accumulate, until
the whole debt amounted to the sum of a thousand dollars. In the mean time
the father went to England, found the soldier after much trouble and
expense, ascertained that Stone knew his parents, one of whom had died in
the alms-house, and spent all his money.
Years of debt and anxiety succeeded, until the father sunk under his
misfortunes. An only daughter also died, leaving Kitty a legacy to her
widowed mother, the other parent having died even before her birth. Thus
was Katharine Van Duzer, our old hostess, left to struggle on nearly
alone, at the decline of life, with a poverty that was daily increasing,
years, and this infant grand-daughter. Just before his death, however,
George Wetmore had succeeded in selling a portion of his farm, that which
was least valuable to himself, and with the money he paid off Van Tassel's
mortgage. This was his own account of the matter, and he showed to his
wife Van Tassel's receipt, the money having been paid at the county town,
where the bond and mortgage could not be then produced. This was shortly
before Wetmore's last illness. A twelvemonth after his death, the widow
was advised to demand the bond, and to take the mortgage off record. But
the receipt was not to be found. With a woman's ignorance of such matters,
the widow let this fact leak out; and her subsequent demand for the
release was met with a counter one for evidence of payment. This was the
commencement of Van Tassel's hostile attitude; and things had gone as far
as a foreclosure, and an advertisement for a sale, when the good woman
thus opportunely discovered her son!