RETURNED HOME.
While the scene just closed was being enacted, a glance across the river
and down the road that skirts along the Hudson from Yonkers to
Tarrytown, would have discovered a light country wagon, drawn by a
single horse, and containing two men, advancing at a brisk pace. They
had nearly reached Dobbs' Ferry as the sun disappeared in the west.
He who sat beside the driver, with his arms folded, and thoughtful, was
a tall, well-formed young man, with light hair that curled into his
neck, side whiskers, deep and intelligent blue eyes, a face that lighted
up with a smile when he spoke, and which had been fair and handsome, but
was now scorched and sun-burnt. His hands, too, were small, but hard and
weather-burnt, indicating that he had been accustomed to use them at
hard work. His dress was of blue petersham, looking neat and new, the
short coat buttoning square across his breast; and a tall hat set oddly
enough on a head evidently not accustomed to the fashion that dictated
such a covering. A broad, white shirt collar, turned carelessly down,
was tied with a black silk handkerchief, the long ends of which hung
outside his coat.
There was something mature and thoughtful in his manner, even beyond his
years. The driver, an inquisitive fellow, had several times tried to
draw him into conversation, that he might find out something concerning
him, for he seemed familiar with the names of places along the river,
and yet kept up the disguise of a stranger. But on nothing, except the
vessels passing up and down the river, did he seem inclined to be
communicative. On these he would make such remarks as showed familiarity
with the sea. Indeed his mind seemed absorbed in something of deep and
painful interest.
They drew up at the little inn with the swinging sign near Dobbs' Ferry,
for the driver said his horse was jaded, and needed feed and rest before
they proceeded further, and were met by the short, corpulent landlord,
who, after ordering the animal cared for, invited them into the house,
saying there was a good supper ready.
"It is sundown now," said the passenger, in a tone of impatience, as he
alighted from the wagon, and received the landlord's extended hand, "and
we are still six miles away. You have forfeited the inducement I offered
to quicken your speed; but it is no offset to my disappointment." This
was addressed to the driver, who muttered something, about the heavy
roads, in reply, tossed his hat into a chair on the porch, and with an
independent and half-defiant air, walked into the house and took his
seat at the supper table.
"'Tisn't the first time Sam's supped at my house," said the landlord,
bowing and inviting the stranger to walk in. "You'll walk in, sir, won't
you? There's always a good supper at this house--kept it when King
George's troops were about--only four shillin', sir," the landlord
continued, bowing and motioning his hand. But the stranger shook his
head negatively, drew a cigar from his pocket and politely requested the
landlord to give him a light. And when he had lighted his cigar, he drew
a Spanish dollar from his pocket, and slipped it into the man's hand,
saying it would pay for both their suppers, and he would take his when
they returned. He, at the same time, begged the landlord to give himself
no concern about him, but to proceed to his supper, which he knew from
his appearance he would enjoy.
"Seein' how you're a gentleman," said the landlord, bowing obsequiously,
"there's three shillin' more for the horse--that squares it."
"Certainly--I forgot the horse," replied the stranger, drawing a
half-dollar piece from his pocket and giving it to the landlord.
"There's a shillin' comin' to you," returned the landlord, putting the
money into one pocket, and feeling in the other, "Never mind the
shilling," said the stranger, "we will settle that another time."
"Travellers always find a good bed at my house, and enough on the table.
That's more than the fellow who keeps the house further on can say,"
continued the landlord, again bowing and proceeding to his supper.
The stranger now paced quickly and impatiently up and down the little
veranda, pausing every few minutes and looking out in the direction of
the wagon, as if it contained something he was guarding with scrupulous
care. In short, the object of his solicitude was a stout, leathern
valise, in the wagon, and which was so heavy that it required the
strength of two ordinary men to handle it easily.
Twenty minutes passed and the driver again made his appearance, wiping
his lips and buttoning up his coat unconcernedly. "Sorry to have
detained you," he said, flapping his hat on. "Landlord says you've
settled the shot--won't be long getting there now." In another minute
they were in their seats and on the road to Tarrytown.
It was nearly eight o'clock when they reached the old ferry, and found
it deserted for the night. The boatmen had ceased their regular
crossings nearly an hour before, and were quietly smoking their pipes at
home. The moon was up, stars shone brightly in the serene sky, and not a
sail specked the unruffled surface of the Tappan Zee. Lights twinkled on
the opposite shore, and the little old town of Nyack was dimly seen.
They waited a few minutes, and as no one appeared, the driver went in
search of the boatmen, saying a few extra shillings would make it all
right with them. And while he was gone the stranger paced nervously and
with rapid steps up and down, every few seconds pausing at the pier-head
and looking intently in the direction of Nyack. Was it joy he
anticipated, or disappointment he feared? Something was agitating his
heart and filling his eyes with tears, for he several times turned his
head and wiped them away. And yet the more he watched in the direction
of Nyack, the more restless and impatient he became.
The driver returned after an absence of ten minutes, accompanied by two
sturdy fellows, both of whom affected to be in bad humor at being called
on to ferry a traveller at that hour. With their hands thrust deep into
their nether pockets, they moved reluctantly about, scanning the
stranger from head to foot. "Couldn't stop this side till morning?"
enquired one of them, in a grumbling tone. "I must cross to-night,"
replied the stranger, in a decided voice. "Cross to-night, eh? Well,
it's a long pull across there now," muttered the man, blowing the ashes
from his pipe and still affecting an air of indifference. Then raising
his eyes and breaking a piece of tobacco between his fingers, he
resumed: "Worth a matter of twelve shillin' extra--isn't it? Wouldn't
mind a trifle like that--I take it."
"I must yield to your demands--of course. It is a necessity with me to
get across as quick as possible," replied the stranger, and drawing from
his pocket two Spanish dollars, he gave them to the boatman, saying: "We
will settle the matter now. Here is your pay in advance."
The man took the money and at once became active and civil. "We must set
the gentleman across, Tom," said he, addressing his comrade, and
exposing the silver, "this makes it all right."
The stranger now dismissed the driver with an extra dollar, for which he
considered himself lucky, for he had not kept his promise to reach the
ferry by sundown.
The boatman who acted as spokesman, in attempting to lift the valise
from the wagon, let it fall to the ground, such was its great weight.
"There's somethin' more nor clothes in that," said the man, shaking his
head and raising his hands in an attitude of alarm. Then, with an
inquisitive look at the stranger, he continued: "Hadn't no connection
with them are Kidd Discovery Company folks? They was swindlers, they
was."
"Never heard of such a company before. Get my things aboard, and let us
be away," replied the stranger, in a tone of command.
It required the strength of both boatmen to carry the valise
comfortably; and when they had got it aboard and the stranger seated in
the stern, for he said he could steer, they pulled away for the opposite
shore. Not a word was spoken for several minutes. At length the stranger
broke the silence. "How pleasant it seems," he said, "to get back on the
old Tappan Zee. Everything looks so familiar--"
"You have been here before, then?" enquired the man pulling the stern
oar, and who had acted as spokesman.
"Yes," returned the stranger. "My home was just out of Nyack not many
years ago. I may find things changed there now. Do you know many people
over there?"
"Why yes--nearly everybody--"
"Dominie Payson--is he living?"
"If he didn't die since yesterday. He was over here yesterday."
"And Doctor Critchel--you know him, I suppose? Is he alive?"
"Why, help you--he never intends to die."
"And you know, I suppose;" here the stranger hesitated, and his voice
thickened; "you know, I suppose, Hanz Toodleburg--and his--. Are they
living?"
"Living! That they are--and right hearty, too. They tried to get the old
man mixed up in the Kidd Discovery affair--but they didn't." The boatman
bent his head approvingly.
"There was a Chapman family--are they still in Nyack?"
"They're there--but its not sayin' much for Nyack. They went to New York
proud, and as folks thought rich, for Chapman had his finger in schemes
enough to get other people's money; but he com'd back poor as a crow,
they say."
The stranger's mind seemed to have been relieved of some great anxiety
by these answers, and he at once became more cheerful and talkative. He
at the same time avoided saying anything that might discover who he
was.
This caution excited the boatman's curiosity to such a pitch that he
resolved to make a bold push to uncover the stranger.
"Wouldn't take it amiss, would you?" said he, "if a man like me was to
ask what your name was? Needn't mind if there's any cause o' keepin' it
a secret."
The stranger smiled, hesitated, and stammered in reply: "Hanz Toodleburg
is my father."
"Well, well! Just what I expected. Didn't say nothin' you see; but I
thought as how you was him," exclaimed the boatman.
"I have been over three years away from home," interrupted the stranger.
"Then you are Tite--the old man's son," resumed the boatman, "well,
well!" Turning to him who pulled the bow-oar: "Stop pullin' a bit, Tom,"
said he, "stop pullin'."
The man now rested his oar, and rising from his seat, extended his hand
to the stranger, saying: "There's a hard old honest hand that welcomes
you safe back. John Flint is my name--called old Jack Flint generally."
And he shook Tite's hand again and again. "A heap o' people round here
reckoned how you was dead--they did. I can't tell you how glad I am to
see you, my boy. Its fifteen years since you and me sailed comrades on
the sloop. Bin all round the world an' aint above shakin' the hand of an
old fellow like me. That's what I like." Again and again the old boatman
shook Tite's hand, and gave expression to such sentiments of joy as
showed how true and honest was his heart.
"Yes, this is me, Jack, and I am as glad to see you as you are to see
me. But I wanted to get across without being recognized."
[Illustration: "Wouldn't take it amiss, would you," said he, "if a man
like me was to ask what your name was?" Page 266.]
The old boatman felt in his pocket, and drawing forth the two Spanish
dollars, insisted on returning them. "Them goes back into your pocket,"
he said, shaking his head, "Never shall be said Jack Flint charged an
old comrade a sixpence for settin' him across stream."
"Keep it, keep it, Jack. I have enough for both of us," replied Tite,
motioning his hand for the boatman to return the money to his pocket.
"Well, if you insist--an' I have to accept it, you see, it'll be out of
respect and to please you." And he looked at the money doubtingly, shook
his head, and reluctantly returned it to his pocket.
The man now resumed his oar, and they proceeded on with increased speed.
In less than half an hour from that time, they had landed at Nyack, and
proceeding up the road had reached Bright's Inn, the two boatmen
carrying the valise. Here they came to a halt, the men setting the
valise down, while Tite seemed in doubt what to do next. Bewildered with
the position he found himself in, hesitating and nervous, almost
overcome by anxiety, his throbbing heart beat quicker and quicker the
nearer he reached his home. But there was now a more violent struggle
going on in his feelings. It was a struggle to decide between love and
duty. Now he looked up the road in the direction of his home, and
advanced a few steps. Again he paused and looked up enquiringly at the
house. The old boatman had told him that Chapman lived there, when all
the embers of that love he had so long cherished for Mattie seemed to
kindle again into a living fire. And yet what changes might have taken
place since he left? If, however, she still loved him, and was true to
him, how could he pass the house, even at that late hour, without at
least letting her know he was in Nyack?
It was indeed late, and there was still a mile before he reached the
home of his parents. He could have more time in the morning to meet
Mattie, to unfold his heart to her, and to give her an account of the
many strange things that had happened to him since he left.
There was a bright light in two of the upper windows, but below the
house was nearly dark, and Bright was in his bar-room, settling up the
business of the day. Suddenly the light in the windows became brighter,
then the shadow of a female figure was seen crossing and recrossing the
room every few seconds. Tite watched and watched that flitting shadow,
for he read in it the object of his heart's love, read in it the joy
that was in store for him, perhaps--perhaps the sorrow. The figure was
Mattie's, and it was her shadow that was causing him all this
heart-aching. Now the figure took the place of the shadow, and stood
looking out at the window, as if contemplating the moon and the stars,
for nearly a minute. Yes, there was Mattie, watching and wondering what
had become of the man who was at that moment contemplating her
movements. Then the figure and the shadow disappeared, but it was only
to increase Tite's impatience to see her.
The three men now proceeded to the door and the bell was rung. A moving
of chairs and unlocking of doors indicated that the house had not gone
to bed. The door was soon opened by Titus Bright, in his shirt sleeves
and slippers, and holding a candle in his hand. "What's up, Flint?" he
enquired, for he saw only the boatmen; "what brings you over at this
time of night?"
"There was a shillin' to be made, you see, Bright, and a passenger what
wanted settin' over, you see," said the ferryman, his face beaming with
good nature. "Know you'd like to see him, you know, Bright, and to make
him as comfortable as you could for a night or so. Tom and me pulled him
across." Tite now advanced towards the inn-keeper, who gazed at him with
an air of astonishment, and held the candle above his head to avoid the
shadow.
"Come in, come in," said Bright. "We will make the gentleman as
comfortable as we can."
"You have forgotten me, I see," said Tite, smiling and extending his
hand.
"God bless me!" exclaimed Bright, grasping his hand in a paroxysm of
delight; "if here isn't Tite Toodleburg cum home. Come in, come in.
Welcome home." After shaking him warmly by the hand and leading him into
the parlor, the inn-keeper ran and brought his wife, who welcomed the
young man with the tenderness of a mother. The good woman would have had
a fire made and supper prepared, and indeed entertained him for the rest
of the night, expressing her joy over his return, had he not told her
how great was his anxiety to see his parents.
"I know who it is the young man wants to see," said Bright, touching him
on the elbow and nodding his head suggestively. "And there'll be a
flutter up stairs when it's told her you're cum home."
The boatmen had remained in the hall. Bright now invited them into his
bar and filled mugs of ale for them, and joined them in drinking the
health of the young man who had been round the world. He then dismissed
them, saying he would take care of the young gentleman's baggage; and
stepping up stairs, tapped gently at Chapman's door. "We were all
retiring for the night," said Mrs. Chapman, opening the door slightly,
and looking alarmed, for Bright was in a flutter of excitement, and it
was nearly a minute before he could tell what he wanted. At length he
stammered out: "There, there, there--there's a strange gentleman down
stairs, mam--and he would like to see Miss Mattie, I am sure he would."
"Mr. Bright," replied Mrs. Chapman, tossing her head and compressing her
lips, "he can't be much of a gentleman to come at this hour of night. My
daughter has no acquaintance who would presume to take such a liberty.
Etiquette forbids it."
Mattie now made her appearance, with a book half open in her left hand,
and looking anxious and agitated. Then resting her right hand on her
mother's shoulder, "Mr. Bright," she enquired, in a hesitating voice,
"what does the gentleman look like?"
"A nice gentleman enough, Miss--"
"Is it any one you know?"
"Why, Miss," resumed Bright, with an air of reluctance, "wouldn't
intrude at this house, but I know you'd like to see the gentleman; and
wouldn't be particular about the time."
Mattie fixed her eyes on Bright with a steady gaze, her agitation
increased, her face changed color rapidly, her heart seemed to beat anew
with some sudden transport of joy. "Oh, mother! oh, mother!" she
exclaimed, tossing the book on the floor, "I know who Mr. Bright means.
It's him! I know it's him! He has come back!" She rushed past her
mother, vaulted as it were down the stairs and into the parlor. The
young man stood motionless. He was so changed in dress and appearance
that she suddenly hesitated, and for a moment drew back, as if in doubt.
"It is me, Mattie," said Tite, smiling and advancing with his hand
extended. The thought suddenly flashed through his mind that she might
have expected some one else. He was mistaken, for she met his advance
like one whose heart was filled with joy. In short, the words had hardly
fallen from his lips when they were in each other's arms, and giving
such proofs of their affection as only hearts bound together by the
truest and purest of love can give.
"I knew you would come back to me--yes, I knew you would. There was an
angel guarding you while absent," she whispered, looking up as he kissed
her and kissed her. And as her eyes met his her face brightened with a
smile so full of sweetness and gentleness.
"I knew what would happen," said Bright, opening the door apace and
looking in. "Knew there would be just such a scene." Just at that moment
Mrs. Chapman brushed past the exuberant inn-keeper, and stood like a
massive statue, looking at the scene before her with an air of surprise
and astonishment, for Mattie was still clasped in the young man's arms.
"My daughter! my daughter!" she exclaimed, raising her fat hands,
"enough to make a mother faint to see a well-brought-up daughter so
familiar? It shocks me, my daughter. I am sure I am glad to see the
young man home. But familiarity of that kind's not becoming. Your father
never would have married me if I had allowed familiarity of that kind."
"You must blame me; it was all my fault," said Tite, handing Mattie to a
chair, and advancing toward Mrs. Chapman.
"You have been away a long time, haven't you," said the lady, receiving
his hand in a cold and formal manner. "You are very much changed--the
effect of the sea-air on the complexion, I suppose? We shall be very
glad to see you at any time, Mr. Toodleburg. It was so late we didn't
expect visitors, and were not prepared for them. You said you had not
seen your aged parents?"
"Not yet," replied Tite, "but I shall proceed there soon."
"It was very kind of you," resumed the lady, "to pay us this compliment.
How very anxious they must be to see you."
"And I am equally anxious to see them," he replied; "but I could not
pass without seeing you--just for a few minutes." Then turning to
Mattie, he exchanged kisses with her, kissed her good-night, to the
great distress of her mother, who was compelled to look on. He also
promised to call early in the morning, spend most of the day, and give
an account of his voyage.
A minute more and he was seated in a wagon beside Bright, and proceeding
over the road toward Hanz's little house.
When he was gone, and the Chapmans had retired to their room, "Ma," said
Mattie, her face coloring with feeling, "it was very unkind, even cruel
of you to treat the young gentleman so coldly."
"Done to balance the familiarity, my daughter--the familiarity! Needed
something to balance that," interrupted the lady, bowing her head
formally. "Young man looks respectable enough. He may have come home and
not a sixpence in his pocket--who knows? In these matters, my daughter,
it's always best to know where the line is drawn before building your
house."
"He might have come home penniless; it would not have made a bit of
difference to me, mother, I would love him just as much," replied
Mattie. "But I can forgive you, ma, for I know you did not mean what you
said." And she kissed her mother, and retired for the night, the
happiest woman in all Nyack.