“NICE place? I guess it is; ther hain’t no such farm in _this_ part of
Illinoy, nor anywhere else that _I_ knows on. Two-story house, and
painted instead of being white-washed; blinds on the winders; no
thirty-dollar horses in the barn, an’ no old, unpainted wagons around;
no deadened trees standin’ aroun’ in the corn-lot or the wheat-field—not
a one. Good cribs to hold his corn, instead of leaving it on the stalk,
or tuckin’ it away in holler sycamore logs, good pump to h’ist his
drinkin’-water with, good help to keep up with the work—why, ther hain’t
a man on Matalette’s whole place that don’t look smart enough to run a
farm all alone by himself. And money—well, he don’t ask no credit of no
man: he just hauls out his money and pays up, as if he enjoyed gettin’
rid of it. There’s nobody like him in these parts, you can just bet your
life.”
The speaker was a Southern Illinoisan of twenty-five years ago, and his
only auditor was a brother farmer.
Both worked hard and shook often (with ague) between the seed time and
harvest, but neither had succeeded in amassing such comfortable results
as had seemed to reward the efforts of their neighbor Matalette. For the
listener had not heard half the story of Matalette’s advantages. He was
as good-natured, smart and hospitable as he was lucky. He indulged in
the unusual extravagance of a hired cook; and the neighbors, though
they, on principle, disapproved of such expenditure, never failed to
appreciate the results of the said cook’s labors.
Matalette had a sideboard, too, and the contents smelled and tasted very
unlike the liquor which was sold at the only store in Bonpas Bottoms.
When young Lauquer, who was making a gallant fight against a stumpy
quarter section, had his only horse lie down and die just as the second
corn-plowing season came on, it was Matalette who supplied the money
which bought the new horse.
When the inhabitants of the Bottoms wondered and talked and argued about
the advisability of trying some new seed-wheat, which had the reputation
of being very heavy, Matalette settled the whole question by ordering a
large lot, and distributing it with his compliments.
Lastly—though the statement has not, strictly speaking, any agricultural
bearing—Matalette had a daughter. There were plenty of daughters among
the families in Bonpas Bottoms, and many of them were very estimable
girls; but Helen Matalette was very different from any of them.
“Always knows just what to say and do,” remarked Syle Conover, one day,
at the store, where the male gossips of the neighborhood met to exchange
views. “A fellow goes up to see Matalette—goes in his shirt-sleeves, not
expectin’ to see any women around—when who comes to the door but _her_.
For a minute a fellow wishes he could fly, or sink; next minute he feels
as if he’d been acquainted with her for a year. Hanged if I understand
it, but she’s the kind of gal I go in fur!”
The latter clause of Syle’s speech fitly expressed the sentiments of all
the young men in Bonpas Bottoms, as well as of many gentlemen not so
young.
Old men—farmers with daughters of their own—would cheerfully forego the
delights of either a prayer-meeting or a circus, and suddenly find some
business to transact with Matalette, whenever there seemed a reasonable
chance of seeing Helen; and such of them as had sons of a marriageable
age would express to those young men their entire willingness to be
promoted to the rank of fathers-in-law.
There was just one unpleasant thing about the Matalettes, both father
and daughter, and that was, the ease with which one could startle them.
It was rather chilling, until one knew Matalette well, to see him
tremble and start violently on being merely slapped on the shoulder by
some one whose approach he had not noticed; it was equally unpleasant
for a newcomer, on suddenly confronting Helen, to see her turn pale, and
look quickly and furtively about, as if preparing to run.
The editor of the _Bonpas Cornblade_, in a sonnet addressed to “H. M.,”
compared this action to that of a startled fawn; but the public wondered
whether Helen’s father could possibly be excused in like manner, and
whether the comparison could, with propriety, be extended so as to
include the three hired men, who, curiously enough, were equally
timorous at first acquaintance.
But this single fault of the Matalettes and their adherents was soon
forgotten, for it did not require a long residence in Bonpas Bottoms to
make the acquaintance of every person living in that favored section,
and strangers—except such passengers as occasionally strolled ashore
while the steamboat landed supplies for the store, or shipped the grain
which Matalette was continually buying and sending to New Orleans—seldom
found their way to Bonpas Bottoms.
The Matalettes sat at supper one evening, when there was heard a knock
at the door. There was in an instant an unusual commotion about the
table, at which sat the three hired men, with the host and his
daughter—a commotion most extraordinary for a land in which neither
Indians nor burglars were known.
Each of the hired men hastily clicked something under the table, while
Helen turned pale, but quickly drew a small stiletto from a fold of her
dress.
“Ready?” asked Matalette, in a low tone, as he took a candle from the
table, and placed his unoccupied hand in his pocket.
“Yes,” whispered each of the men, while Helen nodded.
“Who’s there?” shouted Matalette, approaching the outer door.
“I—Asbury Crewne—the new circuit preacher,” replied a voice. “I’m wet,
cold and hungry—can you give me shelter, in the name of my Master?”
“Certainly!” cried Matalette, hastening to open the door, while the
three hired men rapidly repocketed their pistols, and Helen gave vent to
a sigh of relief.
They heard a heavy pack thrown on the floor, a hearty greeting from
Matalette, and then they saw in the doorway a tall, straight young man,
whose blue eyes, heavy, closely curling yellow hair and finely cut
features made him extremely handsome, despite a solemn, puritanical look
which not even a driving rain and a cold wind had been able to banish
from his face.
There were many worthy young men in the Bonpas Bottoms, but none of them
were at all so fine-looking as Asbury Crewne; so, at least, Helen seemed
to think, for she looked at him steadily, except when he was looking at
her. Of course, Crewne, being a preacher, took none but a spiritual
interest in young ladies; but where a person’s face seems to show forth
the owner’s whole soul, as was the case with Helen Matalette’s, a
minister of the Gospel is certainly justifiable in looking oft and long
at it—nay, is even grossly culpable if he does not regard it with a
lively and tender interest.
Such seemed to be the young divine’s train of reasoning, and his
consequent conclusion, for, from the time he exchanged his dripping
clothing for a suit of Matalette’s own, he addressed his conversation
almost entirely to Helen. And Helen, who very seldom met, in the Bonpas
Bottoms, gentlemen of taste and intelligence, seemed to be spending an
unusually agreeable evening, if her radiant and expressive countenance
might be trusted to tell the truth.
When the young preacher, according to the custom of his class and
denomination, at that day, finally turned the course of conversation
toward the one reputed object of his life, it was with a sigh which
indicated, perhaps, how earnestly he regretted that the dominion of
Satan in the world compelled him to withdraw his soul from such pure and
unusual delights as had been his during that evening. And when, after
offering a prayer with the family, Crewne followed Matalette to a
chamber to rest, Helen bade him good-night with a bright smile which
mixed itself up inextricably with his private devotions, his thoughts
and his plans for forthcoming sermons, and seriously curtailed his
night’s rest in addition.
In the morning it was found that his clothing was still wet, so, as it
was absolutely necessary that he should go to fulfil an appointment, it
was arranged that he should retain Matalette’s clothing, and return
within a few days for his own.
Then Matalette, learning that the young man was traveling his circuit on
foot, insisted on lending him a horse, and on giving him money with
which to purchase one.
It was a great sum of money—more than his salary for a year amounted
to—and the young man’s feelings almost overcame him as he tried to utter
his thanks; but just then Helen made her first appearance during the
morning, and from the instant she greeted Crewne all thoughts of
gratitude seemed to escape his mind, unless, indeed, he suddenly
determined to express his thanks through a third party. Such a
supposition would have been fully warranted by the expressive looks he
cast upon Helen’s handsome face.
Had any member of the flock at Mount Pisgah Station seen these two young
people during the moment or two which followed Helen’s appearance, he
would have sorrowfully but promptly dismissed from his mind any
expectation of hearing the sermon which Crewne had promised to preach at
Mount Pisgah that morning. But the young preacher was of no ordinary
human pattern: with sorrow, yet determination, he bade Helen good-by,
and though, as he rode away, he frequently turned his head, he never
stopped his horse.
Down the road through the dense forest he went, trying, by reading his
Bible as he rode, to get his mind in proper condition for a mighty
effort at Mount Pisgah. He wasn’t conscious of doing such a thing—he
could honestly lay his hand on his heart and say he hadn’t the slightest
intention of doing anything of the kind, yet somehow his Bible opened at
the Song of Solomon. For a moment he read, but for a moment only; then
he shut his lips tightly, and deliberately commenced reading the Book of
Psalms.
He had fairly restored his mind to working shape, and was just
whispering fervent thanks to the Lord, when a couple of horsemen
galloped up to him. As he turned his head to see who they might be, he
observed that each of them held a pistol in a very threatening manner.
As he looked, however, the pistols dropped, and one of the riders
indulged in a profane expression of disappointment.
“It’s Matalette’s clothes and horse, Jim,” he said to his companion,
“but it’s the preacher’s face.”
“And you have been providentially deferred from committing a great
crime!” exclaimed Crewne, with a reproving look. “Mr. Matalette took me
in last night, wet, cold, and footsore; this morning I departed,
refreshed, clothed and mounted. To rob a man who is so lavish of——”
“Beg your pardon, parson,” interrupted one of the men, “but you haven’t
got the right pig by the ear. We’re not highwaymen. I’m the sheriff of
this county, and Jim’s a constable. And as for Matalette, he’s a
counterfeiter, and we’re after him.”
Crewne dropped his bridle-rein, and his lower jaw, as he exclaimed:
“Impossible!”
“’Tis, eh?” said the sheriff. “Well, we’ve examined several lots of
money he’s paid out lately, and there isn’t a good bill among ’em.”
Crewne mechanically put his hands in his pocket and drew forth the money
Matalette had given him to buy a horse with. The sheriff snatched it.
“That’s some of his stock?” said he, looking it rapidly over. “_That_
seems good enough.”
“What will become of his poor daughter?” ejaculated the young preacher,
with a vacant look.
“What, Helen?” queried the sheriff. “She’s the best engraver of
counterfeits there is in the whole West.”
“Dreadful—dreadful!” exclaimed the young preacher, putting his hand over
his eyes.
“Fact,” replied the sheriff. “You parsons have got a big job to do ’fore
this world’s in the right shape, an’ sheriffs and constables ain’t
needed. Wish you good luck at it, though ‘twill be bad for trade. You’ll
keep mum ’bout this case, of course. We’ll catch ’em in the act finally;
then there won’t be any danger about not getting a conviction, an’ our
reward, that’s offered by the banks.”
The sheriff and his assistant galloped on to the village they had been
approaching when they overtook Crewne; but the young minister did not
accompany them, although the village toward which they rode was the one
in which he was to preach that morning.
Perhaps he needed more time and quietness in which to compose his
sermon. If this supposition is correct, it may account for the fact that
the members of the Mount Pisgah congregation pronounced his sermon that
day, from the text, “All is vanity,” one of his most powerful efforts.
In fact, old Mrs. Reets, who had for time immemorial entertained the
probable angels who appeared at Mount Pisgah in ministerial guise,
remarked that “preacher seemed all tuckered out by that talk; tuk his
critter, an’ left town ’fore the puddin’ was done.”
That same evening, the sheriff and his deputy, with several special
assistants, rode from Mount Pisgah toward Matalette’s section.
The night was dark, rainy and cloudy; the horses stumbled over roots and
logs in the imperfectly made road; the low-hanging branches spitefully
cut the faces of the riders, and brought several hats to grief, and
snatched the sheriff’s pipe out of his mouth.
And yet the sheriff seemed in excellent spirits. To be sure, he softly
whistled the air of, “Jordan is a hard road to travel,” which was the
popular air twenty-five years ago, but there was a merry tone to his
whistle. He stopped whistling suddenly, and remarked to the constable:
“Got notice to-day of another new counterfeit. Five hundred offered for
arrest and conviction on _that_. Hope we can prove _that_ on Matalette’s
gang. We can go out of politics, and run handsome farms of our own, if
things go all right to-night. Don’t know but I’d give my whole share,
though, to whoever would arrest Helen. It’s a dog’s life, anyhow, this
bein’ a sheriff. I won’t complain, however, if we get that gang
to-night.”
The party rode on until they were within a mile of Matalette’s section,
when they reined their horses into the woods, dismounted, left a man on
watch, and approached the dwelling on foot.
Reaching the fence, the party halted, whispered together for a moment,
and silently surrounded the house in different directions.
The sheriff removed his boots, walked noiselessly around the house, saw
that he had a man at each door and window, and posted one at the
cellar-door. Then the sheriff put on his boots, approached the front
door, and knocked loudly.
There was no response. The light was streaming brightly from one of the
windows, and the sheriff tried to look in, but the thick curtain
prevented him. He knocked again, and louder, but still there was no
response. Then he became uneasy. He was a brave man when he knew what
was to be met, but now all sorts of uncomfortable suspicions crossed his
mind; the rascals might be up-stairs waiting for a quiet opportunity to
shoot down at him, or they might be under the small stoop on which he
stood, and preparing to fire up at him. They might be quietly burning
their spurious money up-stairs, so as to destroy the evidence against
them; they might be in the cellar burying the plates.
The sheriff could endure the suspense no longer. Signaling to him two of
his men, he, with a blow of a stick of wood, broke in the window-sash.
As, immediately afterward, he tore aside the curtain, he and his
assistance presented pistols and shouted:
“Surrender!”
No one was visible, and the sheriff only concealed his sheepish feelings
by jumping into the room. His assistants followed him, and they searched
the entire house without finding any one.
They searched the cellar, the outhouses, and the barn, but encountered
only the inquiring glances of the horses and cattle. Then they searched
the house anew, hoping to find proof of the guilt of Matalette and his
family; but, excepting holes in the floor of a vacant room, they found
nothing which might not be expected in a comfortable home.
Suddenly some one thought of the boats which Matalette kept at the mouth
of the creek, and a detachment, headed by the sheriff, went hastily down
to examine them.
The boats were gone—not even the tiniest canoe or most dilapidated skiff
remained. It is grievous to relate—but truth is truth—that the sheriff,
who was on Sundays a Sabbath-school superintendent, now lost his temper
and swore frightfully. But no boats were conjured up by the sheriff’s
language, nor did his assistance succeed in finding any up the creek; so
the party returned to the house, and resorted to the illegal measure of
helping themselves liberally to the contents of Matalette’s sideboard.
Meanwhile a black mass, floating down the Wabash, about a dozen miles
below the Bonpas’s mouth, seemed the cause of some mysterious plunging
and splashing in the river. Finally an aperture appeared in the black
mass, and the light streamed out. Then the figure of a man appeared in
the aperture, and all was dark again.
As the figure disappeared within the mass, three bearded men, dressed
like emigrants, looked up furtively, one yellow-haired man stared
vacantly and sadly into the fire which illumed the cabin of the little
trading boat, while Helen Matalette sprang forward and threw her arms
about the figure’s neck.
“It’s all gone, Nell,” said the man. “Presses and plates are where
nobody will be likely to find them. The Wabash won’t tell secrets.”
“I’m so glad—_oh_, so glad!” cried the girl.
“It’s a fortune thrown away,” said one of the men, moodily.
“Yes, and a bad name, too,” said she, with flashing eyes.
“We’re beggars for life, anyhow,” growled another of the men.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Matalette. “Nell’s right—if we’re not tracked and
caught, I’ll never be sorry that we sunk the accursed business for ever.
And, considering our narrow escape, and how it happened, I don’t think
we’re very gentlemanly to sit here bemoaning our luck. Mr. Crewne,”
continued Matalette, crossing to the yellow-haired figure in front of
the fire, “you’ve saved me—what can I give you?”
The young preacher recovered himself, and replied, briefly:
“Your soul.”
Matalette winced, and, in a weak voice, asked:
“Anything else?”
Crewne looked toward Helen; Helen blushed, and looked a little
frightened; Crewne blushed, too, and seemed to be clearing his throat;
then, with a mighty effort, he said:
“Yes—Helen.”
The counterfeiter looked at his daughter for an instant, and then failed
to see her partly because something marred the clearness of his vision
just then, and partly because Crewne, interpreting the father’s silence
as consent, took possession of the reward he had named, and almost hid
her from her father’s view.
Matalette’s section was finally sold for taxes, and was never reclaimed,
but the excitement relating to its former occupants was for years so
great that the purchasers of the estate found it worldly wisdom to
dispense refreshments on the ground.
As for Crewne—a few months after the occurrences mentioned above there
appeared, in the wilds of Missouri, a young preacher with unusual zeal
and a handsome wife. And about the same time four men entered a quarter
section of prairie-land near the young preacher’s station, and appeared
then and evermore to be the most ardent and faithful of the young man’s
admirers.
[Illustration]
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