NEWS FROM NEW ZEALAND.
The little cottage in Huntington took on a new coat of white while
Kit was seeing the world and earning money beyond the sea. All the
weak spots were mended, the yard was put in order, the trees trimmed,
and in the rear a neat garden was made, where, toward the end of the
afternoons, Mrs. Silburn and Vieve went out in sunbonnets and pulled
weeds and did such other work as women’s hands were able to perform. It
was a very different looking place from the dingy spot it had become a
year before under the shock of its owner’s disappearance. And better
than all, the last cent of indebtedness upon it had been paid off.
“I am glad you are able to do this, Mrs. Silburn; glad on your own
account,” the lawyer said when she made the last payment. “I hardly
expected it, with the trouble you have had. I was prepared to give you
as much time as you wanted in paying this up.”
“Oh, you have been very good, Mr. Clarkson,” Mrs. Silburn answered.
“For a time I thought I should have to ask you for an extension. But I
did not know then what a good boy I had. Yes, I knew it of course; but
I did not know that he would be able to do so much for me so soon.”
“Yes, you have a good boy, and no mistake,” the lawyer assented. “But
you can hardly call him a boy any more. When do you expect him home
again?”
“In three or four weeks, now, I hope. And you know we have a little
hope of seeing some one else, too. It is a faint chance; but if the
man I told you of in the New Zealand hospital should prove to be my
husband, we want to have everything in order for him when he returns.
That is the reason Kit was so anxious to have the house painted; and
that is why I have struggled to have all the debts paid. We are looking
every day for a letter from the consul in New Zealand.”
It was putting it very mildly to say that they were “looking” for a
letter from the consul. They were so eager for it that they did not
let a single mail arrive without going to the little post-office on
the hill. Not only that, but they had matters arranged so that as
Vieve came down the hill from the office, she could let her mother
know in advance of her arrival whether she had got any letters. Their
front windows looked across to the diagonal road that went up past the
post-office; and Vieve was to wave the letter, if she got one, as she
came down the hill, so that her mother, sitting sewing by the window,
would see it.
Vieve was cook and housekeeper, now that her mother was busy all day
sewing, and she took pride in leaving everything in good order when she
started for school. Not that the cooking was very hard work. They often
said, laughingly, that Kit would give them both a good scolding if he
should come home unexpectedly and see what they had for breakfast. A
cup of coffee, a few slices of bread and butter, occasionally some
eggs, or a handful of radishes from the garden, made their usual fare;
and the other meals were equally light, though Mrs. Silburn insisted
that every few days they should have a steak or some chops for health’s
sake.
“It’s a sinful waste of money!” Vieve always declared. “We don’t need
them half as much as we need the money. Remember you can’t bring a man
home from New Zealand for nothing. Anyhow, it’s a shame for us to eat
up the money that Kit works so hard for--and you sewing, sewing all the
time. I’m going to find a way to earn a little money myself, as soon as
I can. I don’t want to be the only one to make nothing.”
“Then who will take care of me?” Mrs. Silburn’s invariable answer was.
One morning she knew there was a letter by the way Vieve came running
down the hill, even before it was waved in the air for her. And Vieve
burst in flushed and breathless.
“I’m almost afraid to open it,” Mrs. Silburn said. “So much depends
upon this letter, and it may crush all our hopes.”
“Not _this_ letter!” Vieve laughed. “This is not from that consul
man, this is from Kit; and his letters never crush anybody’s hopes.”
It was a letter telling of his safe arrival in Marseilles, and his
night in Louis-Philippe’s cell in the Castle d’If, and his visit
to Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde with Harry and their meeting with the
distinguished stranger who proved to be a cardinal.
“A cardinal!” Vieve exclaimed; “just think of our Kit travelling about
with a cardinal. He’ll be so proud when he gets home we won’t know what
to say to him.”
“Indeed, I think any cardinal or anybody else ought to be proud to
associate with a young man like Kit,” Mrs. Silburn hastened to answer.
“I don’t know that I want him running about with cardinals, either.
They’re papists, and the papists are all tricky. It would be just
like them to try to make a Catholic of such a young man. That Louise
Phillips, or whatever her name was, can consider herself very much
honored, too, that Kit visited her cell.”
“Why, mother,” Vieve laughed, “Louis-Philippe was a man; a king, a
prince, or something.”
“I don’t care,” Mrs. Silburn went on, “Kit’s just as good as any of
them. Don’t bother, now, till I finish the letter. What do I care for
their kings or cardinals when I have a letter from Kit?
“‘The cardinal gave me a letter to the Bishop of New Zealand,’ she
continued to read from the letter, ‘and it may be of service to us
there. But I hope you have heard from the consul before this. I almost
wish I had asked you to send me a cable despatch telling me when you
got a letter and what it said. But cabling is so expensive--about forty
cents a word to Marseilles--that I shall have to wait in patience
till I get home. That will be in about three weeks after you get this
letter, I think; and I will be out to see you just as soon as I get my
cargo disposed of.’
“I do hope we will hear from that consul before Kit gets back,” Mrs.
Silburn said, after finishing the letter; and for the twentieth time
she figured out, as well as she could, how long it ought to take a
letter to go from London to New Zealand, and how long for the reply to
come to America.
“Well,” she continued, “Kit will find things very much improved here
when he comes home. I never saw the old place look so well. If only
he could stay here longer to enjoy it! He works and works to keep a
comfortable home for us, and then never can stay in it more than a few
days at a time. But you must be off to school, Vieve; and don’t forget
to put on your overshoes, the streets are so muddy. I don’t know how
many times I have told you to go and buy a new pair, but you go on
wearing those old things, full of holes. You’ll catch your death of
cold.”
“I don’t need new ones, mother,” Vieve replied. “They don’t grow on the
trees, you know, and all these things cost money. I’m not going to be
spending all of Kit’s money for my clothes.”
“You foolish child, don’t you know that he always likes to buy things
for you? He’d rather get new clothes for you than for himself.”
“I know it, mother,” Vieve answered. “He slipped some money into my
hand last time he was home, you know, and told me to buy something for
myself. But I’m not going to do it; I’d rather save it; you know what
for.”
“You don’t want your father to come home and find that you’ve died of
diphtheria, do you?” Mrs. Silburn asked. “Well, you must have your own
way about it, I suppose. Stop at the butcher’s when you come home at
noon, Vieve, and get a slice of ham--not a very thick slice. There are
two or three eggs left, and that will do for our dinner.”
It was as well that Kit could not see the pinching little ways at
home, or he would have worried over it. It was something new for the
Silburn family to live in this way, for Kit’s father had always made
good pay, and insisted upon the wife and children having plenty of
everything. But when he disappeared there came a change, and there
were grave doubts for a time whether Mrs. Silburn could make both
ends meet, even with the most rigid economy. Then Kit began to earn
a little; but although nearly every cent of his went to his mother,
she was determined that every cent of his little savings should be
set aside for his future use. It was only when there seemed a slight
possibility of her husband’s being alive that she consented to use some
of his money to repair and paint the house and pay the last of the
indebtedness upon it. Her own small income barely sufficed to buy the
plainest food. There was always, now, some of Kit’s money in the house;
but of their own, as they called it, money that they were willing to
spend, they were often reduced to two or three dollars.
Not long after the receipt of Kit’s letter, Vieve once more waved a
white envelope as she descended the hill from the post-office, and this
proved to be the long-expected answer from the consul in New Zealand.
Mrs. Silburn turned it over and over many times, and examined the
address and the postmarks and the strange stamp on the corner, before
she could raise courage to open it. It was addressed to “Christopher
Silburn, Esq.,” as it was in answer to his letter; and her agitation
was so great that she was half inclined to make this a pretext for
letting it stand unopened until Kit returned.
“Why, mother,” Vieve urged, “you know that was all arranged. He said
the answer would be addressed to him, but that we should open it just
the same. He would think we took no interest in it if we didn’t open
it.”
“No, Kit couldn’t think that!” Mrs. Silburn declared; “he knows us too
well for that.”
With trembling hand she cut off the end of the envelope with her
scissors; but that was as far as she could go. That letter was
destined, probably, either to overwhelm them with joy or fill them with
grief; and she could not bring herself to look at it.
“Here, you read it,” she said, handing it, still in its envelope, to
Vieve. “My hands shake so I can hardly hold it.”
Vieve quickly took out the letter and unfolded it.
U. S. CONSULATE, WELLINGTON, N. Z. [she read].
CHRISTOPHER SILBURN, ESQ., Huntington, Conn.
_Dear Sir_:--Your letter in regard to the supposed American
sailor in the hospital in this place was duly received, and I have
made such investigations as the data you supplied made possible. I
also secured the services of a physician to compare the unfortunate
man with your description, thinking that his larger experience in
such matters would give his opinion greater value than my own.
But I regret that with all these inquiries my answer must still
leave you in doubt whether this man is your father or not. We
imagine that there is a slight scar upon the left temple, but it
is so indistinct, if there really is one, that we think it hardly
corresponds with the one you describe. Still we are not prepared to
say definitely that it does not.
This man’s height is about five feet nine and a half inches, and
you say your father was 5, 10½. But he stoops so much that it is
difficult to get his height correctly, and he may in better days
have been 5, 10½. We are not prepared to either say that his eyes
are brown; they are a sort of brownish gray; and his weight is
about 140 pounds, though it was only 127 when he was received in
the hospital.
The teeth almost answer the description you give, being perfect
except that one incisor on the left side is partly broken off. That
is an accident, however, that might have happened since you last
saw him.
On the whole, as I said before, I am unable from your description
to decide whether this man is your father or not. I have mentioned
to him all the names and incidents given in your letter, without
the least result. He improves in physical health daily, but there
is no corresponding improvement in his mental condition. His memory
seems entirely dormant.
I had him photographed some time ago, but before the prints were
made the negative was destroyed in a fire that burned a large
share of the business portion of this city; and as soon as the
photographers are able to resume business I will have a new
negative made and send you a photograph.
I suggest that you send me as many further particulars as you can;
and meanwhile you may rest assured that this unfortunate man,
whether he prove to be your father or not, is comfortably situated
and receiving all necessary attention.
Yours very truly,
HY. W. W. WILKINS,
_Vice-Consul of the U. S., Wellington, N. Z._
“Well, if _that_ ain’t a disappointing letter!” Mrs. Silburn
exclaimed, when Vieve had finished reading. “I should think a man right
there on the spot could tell something about it. Won’t poor Kit be
disappointed when he comes home, after all these weeks of waiting!”
“And still he has taken a great deal of pains about it,” Vieve
suggested; “even to getting a doctor, and having a photograph taken. We
can’t blame him because he is not able to say yes or no to a certainty.
He knows how awkward it would be if he should say ‘Yes, this is the
man,’ and then after we got him home he should prove to be another man
entirely. I am glad he is so careful about it, at any rate. And it
seems to me there is a great deal in the letter that is encouraging.
Let’s read it over again, and pick out the good points.”
“But you will be late for school, Vieve,” her mother objected.
“School!” Vieve cried; “if I hurry, I may learn that Rio Janeiro is on
the east coast of South America; and I don’t care a fig if it’s on the
west coast of Asia, when there may be news about father.”
Mrs. Silburn looked up in surprise at hearing Vieve speak in this
way, for school was a pleasure to her, not a labor. She saw that the
light-hearted girl was in a great state of excitement, though she tried
hard to suppress it, and the look was the last straw that brought on
the storm.
“Oh, mamma!” she sobbed, with one arm across her eyes. “I believe that
man--that man--in New Zealand--is my father!”
With another burst of tears she threw her arms around her mother’s
neck and sobbed till the chair shook. And as such things are always
contagious, Mrs. Silburn was soon crying too; and if tears are a
relief, they must have felt much better, for it was ten or fifteen
minutes before they were able to look at the letter again.
“Suppose it is your father,” Mrs. Silburn said at length, in a mildly
chiding tone; “that’s nothing to cry about, is it? This unsatisfactory
letter only makes another delay, that’s all. Kit will know what to
do when he comes. He always knows. What is it the man says about your
father’s teeth?”
“Well, he don’t say they’re father’s teeth,” she answered, trying to
laugh off the remnants of her tears. “But he says that that man’s
teeth--let me see what he does say--” and she turned to the letter
again.
“‘The teeth almost answer the description you give,’” she read, “‘being
perfect except that one incisor--’ what’s an incisor? oh, yes, I know;
‘that one incisor on the left side is partly broken off.’”
“Now isn’t that a good point?” she asked. “There ain’t many people have
teeth like father’s, I tell you. And it’s nothing that one of them
should be broken. I guess if we went through such a shipwreck we’d have
more broken than one tooth. It’s easy to see how a mast, or a keel, or
a--a--a breakwater or something might have struck him while he was in
the water.
“Then there’s that scar,” she went on. “Let me see--” and she found
that part of the letter again. “‘We imagine that there is a slight scar
upon the left temple,’” she read. “Now why should they imagine it if it
wasn’t there? You don’t imagine a scar; you see it. Oh, we couldn’t ask
for anything better than that.”
There was no school for Vieve that morning; she was too much excited
over the letter. But after it had been read again and well studied she
drew her father’s armchair to his favorite place by the fireside, got
out his slippers and stood them in order in front of the chair, just
ready to be stepped into, and laid in the chair his pocket knife, that
had been one of their treasures ever since Kit brought it home from
London. Then she called in Turk and made him sit down beside the chair.
“There!” she said; “there’s a beginning. We have the chair, the
slippers, the knife, and Turk waiting to be petted. And in New Zealand
we have got as far as father’s beautiful teeth and the scar on the
temple. Before long we’ll have a whole father sitting here with us, or
I’m very much mistaken. I don’t feel so much as if he was missing now.
We know where he is (at least I think we do), and we have only to get
him home.”
“Ah, you are very hopeful, Vieve,” her mother sighed. “I only wish I
felt as sure of it as you do.”
It was only two or three mornings after the receipt of the consul’s
letter that Vieve once more waved an envelope as she hurried down the
post-office hill.
“It’s another from Kit, mother,” she cried, as she burst into the room;
“and it was registered and I had to sign a receipt for it, so there
must be something important in it.”
There was no hesitation ever about opening Kit’s letters; they were
always so hopeful and cheery.
“We are going to get our cargo in a little sooner than we expected,” he
wrote, “and in about two weeks or two and a half after you receive this
you may hear of our arrival in New York.
“I intended to send you the cardinal’s letter last time I wrote, but I
was interrupted and had to mail it in a hurry, so I waited to send it
in this. And I will register this letter to guard against it’s being
lost in the mails, as a note from so powerful a person might be of
great use to us in New Zealand, and I must not lose it. It is written
in Latin, as you will see; and I am sorry to say that not one of us on
the ship knows enough about Latin to read it. But maybe you can get our
minister in Huntington or Vieve’s teacher to translate it for you. I
should like to know myself what is in it. I shall not be very long, I
tell you, about learning some languages besides English. I did not know
how much use they could be to a man till I came to travel. I am picking
up a little French in dealing with these French people, but have not
had much time for it--for you must not think I have had nothing to do
in Marseilles but look at the sights. I heard a funny little story the
other day about an Englishman who was learning French. You know the
‘sea’ in French is _mer_, pronounced _mare_, and ‘horse’ is
_cheval_. ‘Well,’ said he, after taking a few lessons, I never can
learn such a foolish language as this, where the sea is a mare and a
horse is a shovel.’”
“Did you ever see such a boy!” Mrs. Silburn exclaimed, handling
Kit’s letter as if it were more precious than gold. “He always finds
something funny wherever he goes.”
But Vieve was very much interested in the cardinal’s note, and the
little scarlet emblem in the corner.
“I might take it to school and ask the teacher to translate it,” she
said; “but I think Mr. Wright would be more interested in it. He always
takes such an interest in Kit; and then although he is a minister,
maybe he has never seen a letter from a cardinal.”
That same afternoon she took the letter to Mr. Wright, the clergyman
who preached in the church across the road, and he readily consented to
translate it.
“That is, if I can,” he added, smiling. “It is one good thing about the
Catholics that they teach their young men Latin much more thoroughly
than we learn it in our schools. The priests cannot only read and write
it, but they can always converse in it fluently. But I think I can
translate this for you; at any rate, I will write it out for you in
English, for you probably could not remember it all.”
He read it over first carefully, and then wrote the following
translation:--
MOST REVEREND AND WELL BELOVED BROTHER: This will be
presented to you by Mr. Christopher Silburn, a young American in
whom I take an interest.
His father has been shipwrecked and has disappeared, and it is
hoped that a sailor now in one of your New Zealand hospitals may
prove to be the missing man.
I bespeak for my young friend your good offices in whatever manner
may be fitting.
Accept, brother, the assurance of my continued love and esteem.
GALOTTI.
“Galotti--Galotti,” Mr. Wright said, musingly, as he copied the
signature; “why, there is a celebrated cardinal of that name. This can
hardly be from Cardinal Galotti, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir,” Vieve answered, swelling a little with pride in her
brother; “that is the man. He is one of Kit’s friends in Marseilles.”
Such an astonishing statement had to be explained; and in answer to
her pastor’s questions she repeated the story of their meeting in the
strange church as Kit had told it in his letter.
“I am remarkably glad to hear it,” Mr. Wright said, when she finished.
“Kit is a good boy, and sure to make good friends wherever he goes.
But I imagine you have no idea what a powerful friend he has made this
time. The cardinals hold the very highest position in the Catholic
Church, next to the Pope himself. Such a letter as this from a cardinal
to a bishop is almost equal to a royal command, and may be of the
greatest use to you. Wait a minute; I think I can tell you something
about Cardinal Galotti.”
He turned to a bookcase and took down a volume, and in a few minutes
continued:--
“Yes, Galotti is one of the most eminent of the cardinals, and
may eventually be the Pope himself. All the cardinals are called
ecclesiastical princes, you know; but Galotti is a temporal prince as
well, being a prince of Italy. No wonder he seemed so much at ease in
the little throne they arranged for him in that curious church. I
don’t believe in such things myself; but I am truly glad that Kit has
made so powerful a friend.”
Whether Vieve had anything to say to the girls at school about “Kit’s
friend the cardinal,” would be hard to tell; but in a little over two
weeks more she ran down the post-office hill so fast one morning that
her mother knew she had some news, though there was no letter in her
hand.
What she had was a little slip that one of the neighbors she met in the
office had torn out of his New York newspaper for her. It was only one
line of fine type, under the heading “Arrived Yesterday”:
“_North Cape_, Griffith, from Marseilles.”