glorious indignation as she spoke, “that my promised husband has won
deathless honor, by his good sword, in a great and righteous cause? Whom
should it, then, concern—or what should concern me more than such
tidings?”
“Your promised husband, Mistress Margaret!”
“Your promised husband, minion!” thundered Sir Hugh, in almost
inarticulate fury.
“My promised husband!”
“I thought I had that honor!” faltered the witless baronet.
“You thought, sir—you _thought_!” she replied, contemptuously. “This is
the first time I have ever heard that _you thought_ at all! Now, mark me
well, Sir Andrew Acton, and let it, I pray you, be once and for all. I
think you never asked me to become your wife; and I know, that if you
had done so, and if you had been a man and a gentleman, instead of a
paltroon and a winebibber, and almost an idiot, I had made answer, as I
make answer now—never! never! never! The wife of the grave, if God will
it so, but the wife of Sir Andrew Acton, never! Now are you answered,
sir? If you are, and if you have one drop of gentle blood in your veins,
one touch of gentle feeling in your heart, you will torment me no
further, but begone, and leave me, as you have made me, wretched.”
But he simpered, and stood there unabashed, dangling his bonnet, and
shuffling his feet, and making no movement to withdraw, until Sir Hugh,
who saw that the decisive moment had arrived, bowed his head gravely and
said, “I pray you leave us awhile, now, Sir Andrew; I would confer alone
with my daughter. I will see you again to-morrow.”
Then he attempted a sort of shuttling bow, and left the room awkwardly,
like a cowed cur, fearful of the lash; but when they were left alone,
the obstinate old man stood up, and walking straight to his daughter,
shook his fore-finger sternly in her face, and said,
“You know me, Margaret. I am not a man of many words, but when I have
spoken, I never go backward from my speech.”
“I know it,” she said, firmly, “and I am of your own blood, father, and
not base-born.”
“And I have said that you shall marry Andrew Acton.”
“And I, that I will die sooner.”
“Enough of this!” he replied. “I am no dotard, to be driven from my just
purpose for a silly girl’s love-sick fancies.”
“Nor I,” she answered, “a mere puppet, to be driven to misery, and
perchance to sin, for a father’s prejudice. Oh, hear me!” she cried the
next moment, altering her tone, and throwing herself at his feet, “oh,
hear me, beloved father! spare me, but spare me this one thing! force me
not, for God’s sake, to be this odious varlet’s wife! bind me not to
this life of anguish! and I will swear never to marry any one without
your free consent; nay, I will swear never to ask for your consent;
never to meet, or see, or speak to the only man on earth whom I can
love. Oh, grant me, grant me, father, this one, this reasonable prayer.
I adjure you, by your own gray hairs, by my dead mother’s soul, do not,
do not drive me to madness and despair.”
“Margaret, listen. It is now Wednesday at evening. A ship sails from
Bristol one week hence this day, for St. Maloes. At Rennes there is a
nunnery of Ursulines, wherein my sister is the prioress. On Wednesday
next, by that ship you sail, to take your vows in that nunnery, or you
accept Sir Andrew Acton as your husband. Are you answered? I have
spoken.”
“I am answered,” she replied, rising slowly to her feet. “And I, too,
have spoken—I will die sooner. May God forgive you, father, you know
not unto what you drive me.”
She moved away as if to leave the room, but ere she reached the door she
turned again, and stretching out her arms, cried in a piteous voice,
“One boon, at least, one boon, my father. On Tuesday night you shall
have my answer; but, oh! for the love of God, let me not during this one
week, be tormented by his hateful presence.”
“Be it so,” replied the old man, thinking that she was about to yield.
“Whither go you now?”
“To bed, to bed. Would that I never might rise thence any more.”
But ere she laid her down, she took a large pair of scissors and clipped
the circle of her ring asunder, unseen by her waiting-woman; and then
giving it to her, bade her carry it to old Jeremy, the forester, and let
him bear it to the goldsmith at Stratford the next morning.
Day after day lagged on—night after night crept on, in cloud or in
starlight, over her sleepless couch; and she waxed paler every day, and
thinner, and more ghost-like. She never spoke, or smiled, or left her
chamber, except to go through the wretched semblance of partaking her
father’s meals; but sat muttering inarticulate words, and sometimes
wringing her hands, when she was alone; but when others were present,
perfectly calm and tranquil, though very sad and silent.
The third day came, and she grew restless and eager. There was a hard,
red spot on her cheek-bones, and an unnatural glitter in her clear,
ghastly eye. Her hand trembled nervously; she was quick in her mood, and
irritable to her attendants—a quenchless and insatiate thirst tormented
her.
The fourth day came. It was the blessed Sabbath; but for the first time
in her life she refused to accompany Sir Hugh to the village church, and
kept her chamber during the noon-day meal. As sunset drew near she
became more impatient; and as the early twilight settled down on the
sere woods and silent waters, she donned her cloak, and sallied forth
alone, and took her way up the accustomed path toward the tank, which
still bears her name—Margaret’s Well.
It was quite dark when she returned, wet with the night-dew, and
shivering with cold; but she declined all refreshment, knelt down by her
bed-side, and prayed fervently, and laid her down, not to her sleep, but
to think, to hope, to despair.
The fifth day came, and again she went not forth until evening; again
took her sad, fruitless walk; again returned, colder and sadder and more
silent than before, again dismissed her woman, and prayed, and laid her
down in mute and tearless agony.
The next day came—the last; and she must either accept Acton’s hand
this night, or on the morrow quit her native land forever.
Meanwhile anxiety had grown into fear, concerning the absence of the old
forester, who had not been seen for a week; and the country was searched
far and near, but no tidings were had of him, and it was whispered that
the old man had been murdered. But the secret had leaked out among the
household of the terrible decision which was that day to be made by
their young mistress; and the fate of the forester was forgotten in the
horrid anticipation of something more awful yet.
At noon, Sir Andrew Acton returned to the Hall, for the first time that
week, and was closeted with Sir Hugh in his own study. But Margaret knew
not, heeded not—she was immersed in the deepest and most awful
meditation.
Just before sunset, she braided her hair firmly, trained her beautiful
ringlets to fall down over her fair shoulders, arrayed herself from head
to foot in spotless white, as a virgin bride, and then wrapping a
heavily-furred mantle round her, and covering her head with its
capuchin, or hood, stole forth softly, and sped with a quick, silent
step up the dank, gloomy wood-path.
“I will fly with him—I will fly with him, if he be here,” she muttered.
“This absolves me from all duty; and if not—Jesu, Jesu have mercy, and
forgive!”
She reached the tank, and gazed about her earnestly. All was lonely and
dark and silent as the grave.
“Lionel!” she shrieked aloud. “Lionel!—Lionel Thornhill!” and her wild,
thrilling tones were re-echoed many times from wood and hill, but no
answer came—and again all was silent.
The sun had already set—the distant clock from the stable turret struck
seven.
“It is past the time,” she said calmly. “And thou, too, hast forsaken
me. But I will wait—I will wait yet one hour. When we last met here, I
chid him for impatience; I will not, therefore, be—impatient.”
And she laughed bitterly. Oh! what an awful sound was that! how
fearfully indicative of a broken and disordered spirit? and she folded
her arms on her bosom, and sat down at the base of the very tree beneath
which he had sat at their last meeting—sat down awaiting the next chime
of the distant clock.
The dews fell heavily around her; the sere leaves dropped upon her
motionless head; an aquatic bird cried several times hoarsely and
fearfully from the ponds below, but she moved neither hand nor foot, nor
spoke, nor sighed, nor trembled—but sat there a dark statue.
What awful thoughts passed through her mind in that strange place, in
that terrific hour, one knows alone; what fearful misery it was that
drove that gay and innocent young spirit to such despair, one knows
alone——may HE be merciful.
The stable clock struck eight. Then she arose and cast off her shrouding
cloak, and stood in the murky night pure in her virgin vestments, cold
and resolved, and—was she fearless?
She knelt her down, and buried her face in her hands, and prayed, or
seemed to pray, for a little space. Then she arose again, listened one
little moment—
“It is too late—too late. Jesu, forgive us both! Jesu, sweet Jesu!”
There was a heavy plash, a sullen plunge! two or three bubbling sobs,
and dull undulations of the water followed, and all again was solitude
and silence.
The dews fell heavily, the leaves dropped silently into the tank above
her, once more the aquatic night-bird shrieked in the sedges—but that
immortal soul had gone before its Maker and its Judge.
It was, perhaps, half an hour later, when the clang of a horse’s hoof
came thundering at mad speed down the steep hill-side—it ceased—a
rapid footstep followed it, bounding in frantic haste along the rugged
path. A loud voice, trembling with anxiety, cried—“Margaret! Margaret!”
but Margaret was not—to hear those beloved accents.
Lionel Thornhill rushed into the little space, but all was vacant. A
nameless feeling led him to the base of that tree; he trod on something,
he knew not what, of a strange texture, stopped—it was Margaret’s
mantle.
One bound to the tank’s marge, and there, revealed in the gloom of
night, in the blackness of those awful waters, by the brightness of her
own purity, he found his lost one.
At that same hour, in Margaret’s withdrawing-room, sat two men by a
blazing hearth, with cheerful lamps above, and a steaming posset cup
between them.
They talked, they laughed, they were merry.
Sir Hugh Clavering and Sir Andrew Acton.
There came a strangely sounding footstep, fleet as the wind, yet heavy
as lead, on the road before the house. The hall door was cast violently
open—the strange step came direct across the oaken hall, across the
antechamber, along the corridor, every door dashed open with rude
force—the door of the withdrawing-room the last; and in the door-way,
with that snow-white, dripping figure, its long locks of gold, lank and
disheveled, its white robes clinging to the unrivalled form, cast a dead
weight upon his shoulder, stood Lionel Thornhill, the brave banneret,
the successful soldier.
One stride brought him to the table, one stroke swept posset-cup and
goblets from the board. Then, reverentially he composed the dead form
thereon, while the soul-stricken pair gazed on him, scarcely conscious,
and aghast, and at a single motion removing his hat and unsheathing his
rapier,
“If that,” he said, pointing to the body, “if that sight slay not,
swords are useless. For the rest, you, who have done this thing, and
another that is yet to be, look to it! Margaret! Margaret! I tarried
not; and if I came too late—nor do I tarry now—Margaret! Margaret! my
wife, I come!”
And with the word, he drove the sword into his own breast with so true
an aim, and a hand so steady, that the point cleft his heart, and he was
a dead man, while yet he stood upon his feet.
They lie in nameless graves—their murderers beneath emblazoned
monuments. No record is preserved of them, save in this humble tale, and
in these touching words carved on the brink of that fatal tank:—
Margaret’s Well.
Stranger,
who drinketh here,
Pray for the soul of Margaret.
* * * * *
NIGHT.
BY ALICE GREY.
Night on the mountain—the beautiful night!
The bright stars are beaming with silvery light;
And the pale crescent moon, sailing calmly on high,
Looks down on the earth from her home in the sky;
Oh the sunniest day has no lovelier sight,
Than the tranquil repose of the beautiful night.
Night in the valley—the tall forest trees
In whispers reply to the voice of the breeze;
The streamlet glides softly amidst its green bowers;
The air is perfumed by the night-blooming flowers;
And the song of the bulbul, the fire-fly’s light,
Proclaim through the valley, night, beautiful night.
For soon—far too soon—comes the loud busy day;
Slowly and sadly the stars fade away,
As if even they, in their glory, could grieve
A world of such exquisite beauty to leave;
But with eve they’ll return, and their pure holy light
Long, long shall illumine the beautiful night.
* * * * *
SETTLEMENT OF THE GENESEE.
BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.
Let Ruin lift his arm, and crush in dust
The glittering piles and palaces of kings,
And, changing crown and sceptre into rust,
Doom them to sleep among forgotten things!—
Let Time o’ershadow with his dusky wings,
Warriors who guilty eminence have gained,
And drank renown at red, polluted springs—
Sacked peaceful towns—the holy shrine profaned
And to their chariot-wheels the groaning captive chained!
But the self-exiled Britons, who behind
Left Transatlantic luxuries, and gave
Their parting salutations to the wind,
And, scorning the vile languor of the slave,
Rocked with the little May Flower on the wave,
To immortality have prouder claim:
Let the bright Muse of History engrave
Their names in fadeless characters of flame,
And give their wondrous tale an everlasting fame!
No empty vision of unbounded power—
No dream of wild romance—no thirst for gold,
Lured them from merry England’s hall and bower—
Her Sabbath chime of bells, her hamlet old;
At home religious bigotry controlled
The struggling wing of thought; a gloomy cloud,
Charged with despotic wrath, above them rolled;
And haunts they sought where man might walk unbowed,
And sacred Truth might raise her warning voice aloud.
No waving flag, gay plume or gleaming casque
Proclaimed them masters of war’s bloody trade;
Less daring spirits from the mighty task
In terror would have shrunken: tender maid,
And daughter gently reared, for God to aid
Their feeble natures, breathed the words of prayer,
And in Heaven’s panoply their soul’s arrayed—
Speeding the good work on, though frail and fair,
When sterner manhood felt the faintness of despair.
Old Sparta in exulting tones may boast,
Of ancient matrons who could deck the bier
Of sire and husband, slain where host met host,
And, in the flush of pride, forget the tear:
Our pilgrim mothers, too, could conquer fear,
And stifle sorrow; but their hearts enshrined
The soft affections: Who loves not to hear
Their praises sung?—their constancy of mind,
Amid thy daughters’ Greece, we strive in vain to find!
White lay the snow flakes on the lonely shore,
And Winter flung his banner on the blast—
Behind swept angry waters, and before
Spread waving woods, dark, limitless and vast,
When a new continent received at last
Our houseless sires. The red man, gaunt and grim,
On the strange scene his falcon vision cast;
And nameless terror shook his tawny limb
While, drowning ocean’s roar, went up their triumph-hymn;
And when the bold survivors of the band
Reached the decaying autumn-time of life,
And locks were white, and palsied was the hand,
Barbaric swarms, with axe and deadly knife,
And painted, plumed, and quivered for the strife,
Rushed from their trackless lairs to burn—despoil—
Butcher the cradled babe, the pleading wife;
Then swept the nodding harvest from the soil,
And scattered on the wind the fruits of patient toil.
When the green, shrouding moss of time o’ercrept
Mounds in the vale and on the mountain-side,
Where the stern founders of our empire slept,
Improvement, moving with gigantic stride,
Still hurried onward:—patient Labor plied
The ringing axe; and from his old domain
Fled drowsy Solitude; while far and wide
The scene grew bright with fields of golden grain,
And orchards robed in bloom on hill and sunny plain.
The wand of Enterprise to queenly states
Gave wondrous being; rivaling the spell
That reared round Thebes a wall of many gates
When proud Amphion[A] swept his chorded shell,
The tuneful gift of Hermes: pastoral bell,
With tinkling murmurs, woke savannahs green,
And roused wild echoes in the woody dell,
Where late the cougar, of terrific mien,
Devoured the fawn, or rocked upon his perch unseen.
With his penates, to the distant shores
Of our broad western streams, Adventure hied,
And pierced the soil for rich metallic ores,
Or, with a keen, prophetic vision, spied
An unborn mart upon the river-side;
While Traffic trimmed her bark to brave the gale,
And meet the terrors of a chartless tide—
In nameless havens furled her tattered sail,
Or toward Pacific seas, pursued the red man’s trail.
The buskined lords of bow and leathern quiver
Were thy admiring sponsors long ago,
And named thee “Genesee,” my native river,(1)
For pleasant are thy waters in their flow!
Though on thy sides no bowers of orange grow,
The free and happy in thy valley throng,
O’er which the airs of health delight to blow—
No richer, brighter charms than thine belong
To streams immortal made by proud Homeric song.
Although thy tide that winds through pastures now,
By fleecy flock and lowing kine is drank,
A river of the wilderness wert thou,
When mixed in deadly combat on thy bank
The yelling Savage and impetuous Frank:[B]
Thy wave lifts up no murmuring voice to tell
Where the red, bubbling stream of carnage sank,
When rattling gun, loud groan and fiendish yell
Thy hollow murmur drowned, and gasping valor fell:
And Nature, in the moss of time attired,
On her green throne of forest sat, when came
The host of Sullivan, with vengeance fired,
To rouse upon thy shore the beast of game,
And wrap the lodges of fierce tribes in flame,
Fresh from unhappy Wyoming, and red
With scalps of hoary age and childless dame:
Gone from thy borders are the oaks that spread
Their yellow, autumn palls above the martial dead.
Eastward the soldiers of that campaign bore
Glad tidings of unpruned but pleasant lands,
Washed by thy surges, like those spies of yore
Who brought ripe grapes from Eschol to the bands
By Moses led across the desert sands.
Regardless of the sons of Anak, soon
Bold men, of dauntless hearts and iron hands,
Left home, while life was in its active noon,
To hear the forest wind thy flood’s deep voice attune.
They fled not, like scourged vassals in the night,
From dungeon, rack and chain, with footstep fleet:
The halls of their nativity were bright,
And fraught with recollections, fond and sweet,
Of childish hours; and hearts that loved them beat
Beneath their pleasant roofs: forsaking all—
They roused the wood-wolf from his dim retreat,
And boldly reared the gloomy cabin wall
Of rude, misshapen logs, amid the forest tall.
They little thought, while roving near the site
Of thy proud city,[C] deafened by the sound
Of waters tumbling from a fearful height,
And darkened by the wilderness around,
That soon its hollow roaring would be drowned,
By the deep murmur of the mighty crowd,
Amid thick domes, with tower and turret crowned;
The din of whirling cars, and clatter loud
Of mills by human art with iron lungs endowed:
Nor did they dream that, in communion grand,
Broad Erie’s wave, and Hudson’s mighty tide,
Within a channel shaped by mortal hand,
Ere half a century elapsed, would glide:
That soon fair Buffalo, in queenly pride,
Would spring the Carthage of our inland seas,
And wave her sceptre o’er the waters wide—
To shipping change the patriarchal trees,
And launch a thousand barks to battle with the breeze.
The foreign tourist gazing on thy vale,
By rural seat and stately mansion graced,
Stands mute with wonder when he hears the tale
Of thy redemption from the sylvan waste:
That only fifty years their rounds have traced
Since Phelps, the Cecrops of thy realm(2) forsook
The peopled haunts of Genius, Art and Taste,
While doubting friends with apprehension shook,
And love upon his form fixed sad, regretful look.
On the broad green acclivities that round
The lovely lake of Canandaigua rise,
The groves in deep, majestic grandeur frowned,
Hiding their gloomy secrets from the skies,
And scarred and worn by storms of centuries,
When painted hordes, with streaming locks of jet,
Terrific garb, and wildly glancing eyes,
Him and his daring band in treaty met
Though late with Christian gore the tomahawk was wet.
A magic mirror girt by emerald,
In shade embowered, the diamond waters lay;
While the proud eagle, king-like, fierce and bald,
Throned on the blasted hemlock, eyed his prey:
Sweet wild-flowers, guarded from the blaze of day,
Delicious odor on the soft air flung;
And birds of varied note and plumage gay
On shrubs and vines, with ripening berries hung,
Folded their glittering wings, and amorously sung.
The water-rat and darting otter swam
Amid the reedy flags that fringed the shore;
And the brown beaver to his rounded dam,
With patient toil, the tooth-hewn sappling bore:
The lonely heron, surfeited with gore.
Smoothed on the pebbly beech his plumage dank:
Earth, sky and wave an air of wildness wore,
And nimbly down the green and sloping bank
Came stag and timid hind, on silver hoof and drank.
The pen of voiceful narrative may well
That solemn congress in the forest call
A thrilling and romantic spectacle:
The trunks of oaken monarchs, huge and tall,
Were the rough columns of their council hall;
Thick boughs were interwoven overhead,
And winds made music with their leafy pall:
Below a tangled sea of brushwood spread,
Through which, to far-off wild, the beaten war-path led.
Few were the whites in number, and about
The council-fire were gathered dusky throngs,
From whose dark bosoms time had not washed out
The bitter memory of recent wrongs.
Some longed to wake their ancient battle-songs,
And on the reeking spoils of conflict gaze—
Bind the pale captive to the stake with thongs,
And hellish yells of exultation raise,
While shriveled up his form, and blackened in the blaze.
The compact for a cession of their land
Was nearly ended, when a far-famed chief
Rose with the lofty bearing of command,
Though lip and brow denoted inward grief:
Nought broke the silence save the rustling leaf,
And the low murmur of the lulling wave;
He drew his blanket round him, and a brief,
But proud description of his fathers gave,
Then spoke of perished tribes, and glory in the grave.
“And who be ye?” he said, in scornful tones,
And glance of kindling hate—“Who offer gold
For hunting-grounds made holy by the bones
Of our great seers and sagamores of old?
Men who would leave our hearths and altars cold—
Unstring the bow, and break the hunting-spear—
Our pleasant huts with sheeted flame infold,
Then drive our starving, wailing race in fear
Beyond the western hills, like broken herds of deer.
“Wake, On-gue-hon-we![D] Strike the pointed-post,
And gather quickly for the conflict dire;
You Long-knives are forerunners of a host,
Thick as the sparks when prairies are on fire;
Let childhood grasp the weapon of his sire—
Arm, arm for deadly struggle, one and all
While wives and babes to secret haunts retire:
The ghosts of buried fathers on ye call
To guard their ancient tombs from sacrilege or fall!”
Dark forms rose up, and brows began to lower,
While many a savage eye destruction glared;
But one came forth in that portentous hour,
Ere shaft was aimed, or dagger fully bared,
And hushed the storm. Old Houneyawus dared
His voice upraise; and by his friendly aid
The knife was sheathed—the pioneer was spared;
Above that humane warrior of the shade
Let marble tell the tale in lines that cannot fade.
All hail our early settlers! though with storm
Their sky of being was obscured and black,
And Peril, in his most appalling form,
Opposed their rugged march, and warned them back:
They faltered not, or fainted in the track
That led to empire; but with patience bore
Cold, parching thirst, and fever’s dread attack;
While ancient Twilight, to return no more,
From far Otsego fled to Erie’s rock-bound shore.
They toiled, though Hunger with his wasted mien,
Stalked through their infant settlements, and night
Lured from the gloomy cavern, gaunt and lean,
Droves of disturbing wolves, that hated light,
Some wan and trembling mourner to affright
With their dismaying howls, around the place
Where coldly still, and newly hid from sight,
Earth folded loved ones in her damp embrace,
Without recording tomb their forest mounds to grace.
From clearing rude, and dismal swamp undrained,
Fumes of decaying vegetation rose;
While the fell genius of distemper reigned,
And filled the newly-opening realm with woes;
Brave manhood smiting—though his lusty blows
Tall ranks of warrior oaks in dust had bowed,
And robbing widowed beauty of her rose,
Or weaving, while the voice of wail was loud,
Round childhood, early lost, the drapery of the shroud.
Born in the lap of plenty and of wealth,
Mindless, too oft, are children of the sire
Who purchased at the fearful price of health,
And even life, their heritage. The lyre
Should call forth music from its proudest wire
In praise of men who brave, to bless their kind,
Tempest, the sword, foul pestilence and fire;
Their names in grateful hearts should be enshrined,
When crumbled are their bones—their ashes on the wind:
And those who left the venerated breast,
And soil of proud New England, to reclaim
Our smiling El Dorado of the West
From centuries of gloom, and haunts of game
Change to Arcadian lovelines, and tame
The virgin rudeness of the shaded mould,
Should not be unremembered:—on the same
Eternal page where Fame, in lines of gold,
Hath _pilgrim virtue_ traced, their names should be enrolled.
-----
[A]
Dictus et Amphion, Thebanæ conditor arcis,
Saxa movere sono testudinis, et prece blanda
Ducere quo vellet. _Hor. de. Art. Poet._
[B] Allusion to De Nouville’s invasion, in 1687, of the Genesee valley.
[C] Rochester.
[D] A title assumed by the Iriquois, or Five Nations, meaning “men who
surpass all others.”
* * * * *
NOTES.
(1) “And named thee Genesee,” &c.
The word Genesee is of Seneca origin, signifying “Pleasant Valley,” or
“Valley of Pleasant Waters.”
(2) “Since Phelps, the Cecrops of thy realm.”
It may seem strange to many of the millions who are now reveling in the
comforts and prosperity which the last half century has diffused through
western New York, that the course of Oliver Phelps and his associates
should have been then considered so hazardous, that the whole
neighborhood of Granville, Mass., their native town, assembled to bid
them adieu—a final adieu, as many thought; for it seemed a desperate
chance that any of that intrepid band should ever return from their
enterprise through a region to which the Indian title had not been
extinguished. The wilderness was penetrated as far as Canandaigua Lake,
and I am indebted to an old number of the New York American for the
description that follows, of a treaty held on its banks with the Senecas
by Phelps and his companions.
“Two days had passed away in negotiation for a cession of their
land. The contract was supposed to be nearly completed, when Red
Jacket arose. With the grace and dignity of a Roman senator, he
drew his blanket around him, and with a piercing eye surveyed
the multitude. All was hushed. Nothing interfered to break the
silence, save the rustling of the tree-tops under whose shade
they were gathered.
“Rising gradually with his subject, he depicted the primitive
simplicity and happiness of his nation, and the wrongs they had
sustained from the usurpations of the white man, with such a
bold but faithful pencil, that his Indian auditors were soon
roused to vengeance, or melted into tears. Appalled and
terrified, the white men cast a cheerless gaze upon the hordes
around them. A nod from the chiefs might be the onset of
destruction. At that portentous moment Houneyawus, known among
the whites as Farmer’s Brother, interposed.”
* * * * *
[Illustration: Drawn by Ch. Bodmer Eng^{d} by Rawdon, Wright & Hatch
Mandan Women
Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine]
* * * * *
MANDAN INDIANS—LOVER’S LEAP.
We present our readers this month with two beautiful American plates.
The Mandan Indians is one of a series of the spirited pictures of
Bodmer, who, in a visit through the west and south-west, made sketches
from nature of the most striking scenes, and of incidents in Indian life
and warfare. We have still on hand several very fine pictures by this
artist; and we think we hazard nothing in saying, that, for artistic
effect and skill, these engravings are far superior to any thing that is
met with in the Magazines. The dance of the Mandan women was taken, as
represented, from a group, by Mr. Bodmer.
Our other engraving, is one of the fine series of Georgia views that we
are running through the Magazine; and the “Lover’s Leap” is another
evidence of the charming bits of scenery with which that state abounds.
We have now in the hands of artists, sketches of scenery in Virginia,
North Carolina, Ohio, and other states, and purpose in coming volumes,
to present to the readers of Graham, views of every state in the Union,
engraved in a style to do credit to the country and the work. The
American character of the embellishments and literature of Graham, are
rallying around the work thousands of true friends yearly.
* * * * *
FRANK BEVERLY.
BY MARY SPENCER PEASE.
Late in the evening of the last day of September, A. D. 18—, a stage
stopped at a small inn, and deposited two trunks, with their two owners:
then rattled on to its final stopping-place, six miles further.
The two trunks with their two owners were shown into the best
sleeping-room the house afforded, and left with a “dim, religious light”
for company. The light showed them (the trunk’s owners, not the trunks)
to be men—good-looking and young. Their conversation proved them to be
cousins, and on their way to Beverly Park, the home of the handsomer of
the two, whom the less handsome addressed as Frank.
“But, Ned, speaking of pictures, and furniture,” continued Frank,
interrupting himself in his description of Beverly Park and its picture
gallery, “you never have seen Clara. Three years ago she bid fair to be
a beauty. To-morrow will prove whether time has or has not fulfilled his
promise. Three years ago she was a fairy thing of sweet fifteen. I say,
Ned, did you ever see a more horrid place than this inn?”
“Yes, many.”
Frank laughed. “Any way,” said he, “you must acknowledge it is a most
dismal apology for a ‘house of entertainment for man and beast:’ I
wonder if his godship, Mr. Morpheus, ever deigns to visit it. I feel
wonderfully like making the trial. What say you, Ned, shall we court him
to wrap us in his mantle of oblivion?”
“With all my heart.”
The friends resigned themselves to sleep. Blessed be the man who first
invented _sleeping_. There is poetry in sleep: there is music in it.
Have you never watched the young child, with its fair hair reposing so
quietly in clustering curls around its cherub, happy face? Its low,
soft-breathing—one little dimpled hand grasping a toy—one fair,
rounded arm pillowing its young head. The little rosy mouth in a half
smile—smiling to the fairies that come whispering to its heart? This is
poetry. Were you never in a stage-coach with an old man for one of its
passengers, clad in the greasiest snuff-colored coat and vest
imaginable; and bearing upon them any quantity of dull brass buttons—a
round-crowned, dirty white beaver upon his red-haired Medusa-like head:
he himself fast “locked in the arms of _omnibus_,” and snoring loud
enough to awake the seven sleepers? _This_ is music.
Morning came. The landlord was duly paid, and the cousins proceeded on
their way to Beverly Park.
“Three years seems a long time to be away from one’s home, eh! Ned?”
said Frank, after they had ridden a long way in silence. “I hope you
will like my sister Clara.”
“I do not doubt that I shall, if she is any thing like her brother.”
“Thank you. These are fine old elms, are they not? I like elm trees; I
like them in the moonlight, when the silver-tipped shadows flit among
their dark green leaves; they bring to mind old ruined castles. I can
fancy ivy-clad turrets, and the soft eyes of fairy maidens gazing from
them. Their eyes, as they gleam forth from amid the night-colored
boughs, look dreamy and fitful. I see them twine, with snowy, shadowy
arms the dark green ivy amid their coal-black tresses. I love elm trees
thus bathed in moonlight, they remind me of all the wild things I have
ever read, thought or dreamed.”
“Have a care, Frank, or some one of these same moonlight nights your
imagination will carry you off _vi et armis_.”
“Never fear, Ed. But here is my home. My father had taste, had he not?”
“All around is the perfection of taste. Your father must have spent much
of his time in planning such a Paradise.”
Francis made no reply; but with all the impetuosity of his ardent nature
rushed into the house. When Edward, left to the guidance of a servant,
entered the hall, he found a fair-haired girl clasped to his cousin’s
heart—a mild-eyed matron, he knew was Frank’s mother, so strongly did
she resemble him, looking love and joy upon him.
That was a happy family assembled at Beverly Park. Within a week from
the arrival of its heir, the many chambers of the old Hall were nearly
filled with friends and relatives of the Beverlys, who had come to spend
the winter with them. So mirth was the order of the day at Beverly Park.
“Cousin Ed,” said Frank, one sunny morning, “you and Clara seem so happy
in each other, and have so much to say, there is not room for me to put
in a word: I see I am _un de trop_. Mamma is reading, I cannot talk with
her; Kate and George are at that everlasting chess-board; the Miss
Linwoods and the rest of our party are out riding, so poor I have
nothing to do, nor no one to talk with.”
“A sad case, brother mine,” said Clara, laughing.
“I’ll be revenged some way. I’ll go out on an exploring expedition, all
alone. _Au revoir!_” . . . .
Upon the grass-green banks of a flower-fringed, dancing stream, a little
child, of four bright summer suns, was playing with the pebbles at its
edge. She had the “_curlingest_” little head of gold-brown hair in the
world. Her form was faultless: her eyes—warm, soft hazel.
As the child threw the shining pebbles into the water, and laughed with
delight to see the bubbles and dimples she created, the step of a man
sounded on the mossy sward.
The child looked up but evinced no fear.
“Come here, pretty one.”
The child came bounding toward him, and peered up into his face so
winningly, that he caught her up in his arms, and kissed her young brown
eyes, and fair round cheek, until she put her little hand upon his mouth
and told him he was naughty.
“What is your name, little one?”
“Nina: What is yours?”
“Frank,” replied the other smiling. “What is your mother’s name, pretty
Nina?”
“Mamma. What is yours?”
“What is her other name beside mamma?”
“Papa calls her Agnes,” lisped the child.
“_Agneth_,” said the man; “and what, pretty one, is thy father’s name?”
“Tell me the name of yours first.”
“I have no papa, little one.”
“No papa!”
“None, little Nina; he is dead.”
“Dead! What does that mean?”
“Nina, where do you live?”
“My papa’s name is William: now tell me what dead means.”
“You could not understand me, dear child, if I were to tell you; show me
where you live and I will come and explain it all for you.”
“Over there we live,” and the child pointed to a cottage half hid among
the trees. It seemed a perfect love of a cottage. Frank felt
irresistibly tempted to go and see “Agneth;” but he merely kissed the
little Nina good-by and put her down. The child went to her pebbles and
Frank turned toward his home. He had gone but a few steps on his
homeward path, when a slight scream caused him to look around, his
little friend in attempting to cross the small bridge of planks, had
slipped and fallen into the brook. An instant more and Frank was on the
way toward Nina’s home, with Nina in his arms.
The little girl was wet and frightened, but did not seem hurt. She
nestled tremblingly in his bosom, making no complaint, save a low sob
that came less and less frequent.
“There is my mamma!” exclaimed she, as Frank entered the garden gate.
Nina sprang from his arms and ran up to her mother. Frank thought he had
never seen so beautiful a creature; she did not seem older than his
sister Clara.
“See, mamma!” eagerly said the little Nina. “Here is Frank. I fell into
the brook and he took me out. Wasn’t he a nice Frank? You must love him,
mamma.”
The mother rested her eyes, full of gratitude upon the young man: her
eyes, so dark and earnest, spoke to his soul. He felt a new life spring
up within him; a life he had only dreamed of till then. Her eyes were of
that peculiar shade of hazel, neither light nor dark, sometimes both, at
times almost blue: a ring of heaven enclosing a world of earthly love.
Agnes led the way into the cottage, and asked Frank, with a voice as
sweet as her eyes were beautiful, to follow her. She left him in the
drawing-room, taking with her the little Nina.
Frank had time to admire the rooms, as he stood drying his clothes by
the cheerful grate; the days had then begun to be somewhat chilly. All
around bespoke the most elegant simplicity, the utmost refinement. The
eye of the young man was delighted as it wandered around the
room—books, music, flowers—all was softness and ease. Frank was
enchanted. Still more was he enchanted when, all radiant, the sweet
mistress of the cottage entered. A thousand smiles of joy beamed from
every part of her face. “She brightened all over,” like Moore’s
Nourmahal. Her face was of that strictly classic mould, so beautiful
even unaccompanied by expression. Expression was her chief attraction:
the color came and left her face as shadows do beside a bright fire.
Soul was in all she did. _Her_ soul was like a blazing mass of
pearls—bright and soft. Frank was completely charmed. She thanked him
so prettily for rescuing her child—was afraid he would take cold—were
his clothes perfectly dry?
“Perfectly,” replied Frank.
They glided from one topic of conversation to another, scarcely knowing
they were talking, with so little constraint did their words flow. What
she said came so from her heart. Frank had heard the same things
uttered, but there was an indefinable charm accompanied her every word,
however commonplace the subject was.
Music came up at length. Both her piano and harp were brought into
requisition. Agnes played and sang well. Frank was an enthusiastic lover
of music, and just what and all he loved did she play. Never sang so
sweet a voice as hers.
Music! dear Music! What nurse like thee will soothe the world-worn,
weary soul? When we are sad and sullen, what will bring us to
ourselves—to _hope_ again—like music? Soft, wild music. Bellini music!
Agnes played, Frank listened. Agnes talked, Frank listened—his heart
beat a young whirlwind. Time flew by unheeded—unmarked.
Francis recollected himself before it was quite midnight, and rose to
go.
“I am so sorry William is not at home; you would like him. He is very
much like you. He went this morning to the city, and will not be home
till to-morrow.”
“William!”
“Yes. My husband.”
“True. I had forgotten.”
“But you will come again?”
Frank smiled a _bon soir_, and went home feeling as he never felt
before. He did not own to himself he was in _love_, but he _did_ own
_she_ was a _most_ lovely creation.
Clara rallied him next morning on his silence.
“You seem but moody, brother mine; what change has clouded the spirit of
your dream?”
“A spirit of beauty that ministered to my dreams last night.”
“In what shape did it come?”
“In the guise of a mermaid I suspect. Frank is very fond of such
mysterious beings.” Edward laughed as he said it. Frank thought there
was a little mischief in his cousin’s eye.
“I don’t envy him his visitant,” said Cousin George. “Mermaids are cold
creatures, I doubt if they have hearts.”
Frank tried hard to enjoy the party at Beverly Hall, but his thoughts
would wander to the cottage, and the afternoon found him again by the
side of Agnes.
Some part of every day at length saw him at the cottage; the little Nina
learned to welcome him with a wild cry of delight.
He always found some good excuse for going. Agnes was to sing him some
new song, from some new opera—or he had promised Nina a ride on his
pony—or he had not finished a discussion with the father upon some
political question.
Agnes had said right when she told Frank he would like her husband: he
_did_ like him, and the husband liked Frank, and was as glad to see him
as was either Agnes or Nina.
Little did the husband and wife dream of the chain fastened and
tightening around his heart—gnawing to that very heart’s core. He was
in a dream—a nightmare. He would have given worlds to have been able to
keep away from the cottage, from seeing Agnes, but the more he resisted
the fascination the less could he overcome it, and the more often did he
find himself at the cottage.
Agnes had too pure a heart, and loved her husband too entirely, to dream
even that Frank had other feelings for her than those of friendship. The
husband was unsuspecting—he knew not, could not know, how all in all
his bright Agnes was to the heart of Frank.
The husband and wife loved each other so truly there was no room for
doubt in the heart of either.
The winter months had nearly passed. Each day the little fairy Nina grew
more interesting and lovely: and then she loved Frank so—he _must_ go
and see her. The pretty Nina.
“How remarkably fond your brother seems of solitary rambles,” said Miss
Linwood to Clara one day.
“Very,” quietly responded Clara.
“He is a very singular young man: he has grown so melancholy and
reserved, so different from what he used to be. Don’t you think so,
Clara?”
Clara _did_ think her brother had altered. He looked so pale and seemed
so sad. Something must be the matter with him.
Something _was_ the matter with him undoubtedly. At home he was gloomy,
silent, abstracted. He lived only in the light of the brown eyes at the
cottage. He loved without owning to himself he loved. And to _her_! He
would sooner have torn out his tongue than to have sullied her pure ear
with a whisper of the maddening love that devoured his soul.
The cousins seemed to have changed characters. Edward chatted and
laughed with his lively cousin Clara from morning to night. Frank was
silent and thoughtful.
The gay party at the Hall wondered not a little at the repeated absences
of Frank.
Edward declared his cousin had found some sweet simplicity of a being at
whose shrine to worship.
“I would be willing to wager my happiness for a year to come, that you
_are_ in love, brother mine,” said Clara, one day when the inmates of
the Hall were assembled in the library. “You are not the same brother
Frank you were last autumn. I shall have to call you Francis, for you
are not _frank_.”
Frank smiled, made some gay repartee—half acknowledged, in a laughing
way, Clara was right.
The party grew more merry, and Francis, from being very low-spirited,
became the merriest there. Sparkling words fell from his lips, and
sparkling glances fell from his eyes, in uncontrolled profusion.
“Let me take your hand, Francis,” said Clara. “Did you know I was a
seer? No! then listen.”
The laughter-loving girl took his hand, and putting on an _awful_ look,
she began—“Where grow the tall elms greenest, lies hid a vine-covered
cottage. Ha! you start, brother mine. I am right! That we will take for
granted. We will also take for granted that the said cottage is a
paragon of a cottage. Within—ah! there’s the charm. What! blushing,
Frank! Am I not a good diviner? Let me see—oh! she is beautiful! A Peri
come down on earth to live. A fairy—for naught but a fairy—no mortal
maiden could be fashioned fair enough to suit my _perfectionist_ of a
brother. Here is a line I do not quite comprehend. Ah! I see—there is
some difficulty: it only proves what the great bard said—‘The course of
true love’—you know the rest. The fairy maiden does not look kindly on
you. See! these lines cross one another: but the cross line is short;
after that all is clear. Her eyes will yet look love on you. Her home
will yet be in your heart. So, courage, brother!”
All were now eager to hear their fortunes, but the capricious girl
turned to the piano; before she had half finished her song she abruptly
asked,—
“Mamma, what is love?”
“Love, my dear?—why it is a principle inherent within us. The feeling I
have for you is love. God is love, and all his creation is ruled by the
laws of love.”
“Cousin Edward, what is _your_ definition of love?”
“Love,” said Edward, looking into the depths of her laughing blue eyes,
“love is love.”
“Good!—that will do for you. So now, Frank, it is your turn
Francis—brother.”
“What, Clara?”
“Where are you wandering?”
“To the vine-covered cottage you were telling me of.”
“Well, come back from there, and tell me what love is.”
“Love? Love is the devil! An angel of light—madness—gladness! Gladness
in the presence of the loved one, and—”
“And madness away from the dear one. Is that it? Yes, you _are_ in
love.”
Miss Linwood was appealed to for _her_ opinion of what love was.
“Never having experienced the mysterious influence of the blind deity,”
said she, “I feel myself totally unprepared to give an opinion on the
all important subject.”
Miss Laura Linwood giggled and said nothing.
Mr. Ralph Linwood gave it as his belief that love was animal magnetism.
Much more he said by way of illustration; hardly worth repeating
however.
Kate and George agreed with Edward, viz., that _love was love_.
Another cousin, little Lilla, they called her, a sister of Kate’s—a
child—a very pretty one, too, said that love was the son of Venus, and
that he was named Cupid—for her Heathen Mythology said so; and that he
always kept a bow and arrow to shoot into the hearts of mortals.
The child was right.
One maintained that love was friendship continued, the allegory of a
metaphor.
“Love is like a dizziness, confound it, ’t wont let a fellow go about
his business,” said George.
And so the merry party kept rattling on;—nonsense, to be sure—but what
is this world good for without some nonsense?
The group at length became divided—the conversation less general.
Edward and Clara sat over on a lounge by the window, talking with each
other in a very animated strain. The rest cut up in small cliques were
equally full of life. Frank alone seemed sad. His buoyant spirits had
deserted him. He rose to go.
“What, off again, my brother?”
“Yes, I am going in search of that cottage you described. I am impatient
to see the lovely fairy it contains.”
“Then you never have seen her? Say not no,” said Clara, shaking the
fore-finger of her little hand at him.
Frank was off. He mounted his horse, and as though he were on his way to
his last ride.
“I have come to say, good-by,” said he, on entering the conservatory at
the cottage, where Agnes was tying up her flowers.
“What! are you going? Where?”
“To—to Lapland.”
“Lapland!”
“Yes! to see if I cannot freeze the burning weight at my heart.”
Agnes looked surprised. The truth half flashed upon her, and when she
saw how wretched Frank looked, a thousand little things he had done and
said that she thought nothing of at the time, came suddenly to her mind,
as though to corroborate her suspicions.
“No, it cannot be,” said she to herself, blushing at having even
_thought_ she was beloved by Frank. She warmly expressed her regrets for
the departure of her friend. And the little Nina—she hardly knew what
to make of it. She crept up to Francis, and climbing upon his knee, hid
her face in his bosom, to hide her own tears.
“Is good Frank going to leave his poor Nina? Naughty Frank.”
“Yes, pretty one,” said he, fondly passing his hand through her
clustering curls. “Give me one of these sunny ringlets, Nina; I will
keep it always.”
Quicker than thought the child sprang down, and ran to her mother.
“Mamma, where are your scissors? Frank wants one of my curls.”
The mother gave her the scissors. Nina, selecting the prettiest curl she
could find, off it came.
“Here,” said she, handing it to Francis. “Now give me one of your nice
curls, and I will keep it forever.”
Frank let her cut off the lock that pleased her best. The child actually
screamed with delight; and dancing round the room with true childish
glee, she held it up for her mother to admire, and said she would “show
it to papa as soon as he came home.”
Francis Beverly went. . . . .
Twelve or thirteen years after, a solitary equestrian was seen to enter
the tangled avenue leading to Beverly Park.
He was fine-looking, very. There was a calm, almost subdued look about
him; yet the great blue eyes that looked out upon the world through
their long, dark lashes, told of passions deep and strong. The brow
above them was clear, open, and broad. A mass of chestnut curls
clustered around his brow, glancing out from under the thick folds of
his traveling cap. Such was the master of Beverly Park. All around the
Hall looked overgrown and neglected, as though the place had long stood
sadly in want of a master. . . . . .
“Do you know, Mr. Bev—”
“Call me Frank. You always did when you were a child, sweet Nina.”
“Frank,” repeated the soft voice of Nina.
“What were you going to say?”
“Oh, I have forgotten.”
“Nina, when I went away you begged some of my hair—have you it yet?”
“Why, Mr. Bev—, Frank, I mean, how _do_ you think I could keep a little
lock of hair thirteen long years?”
“Then you have lost it, or thrown it by; yet I remember, you _said_ you
would keep it forever.”
“I did not say I had thrown it away, or lost it, for I have done
neither. I had it imprisoned right away in this little locket, and have
worn it around my neck ever since, for fear of breaking the promise I
made.”
“That was the only reason of your wearing it?”
“Certainly, if I except a strong childish liking I had for ‘Frank.’”
“Your hair has grown darker, dear Nina. See! I have worn this bright
tress upon my heart ever since you gave it to me. I would, dearest Nina,
its owner would make _her_ home there. Nina—”
Just then the door opened and Agnes entered. Thirteen years had trodden
lightly over her head. She was scarce altered from the bright Agnes of
his first love-dream.
The inmates of the cottage had warmly welcomed Frank, after his long
absence. Since his return he had gradually gone more and more often to
the cottage, until he had almost become its inmate. The charm _now_ was
not Agnes, or rather it _was_ Agnes—a _second_ Agnes. Francis could
hardly persuade himself that the gentle, playful Nina, was not the Agnes
he once loved so madly. The wild, unsettled years that had passed; the
thirteen restless years of wandering through foreign lands in search of
happiness—of oblivion, seemed like a troubled dream to him. He lived
again in the present—in the sunshine of Nina’s warm, brown eyes. He was
happy in the present, with the sunny-hearted Nina beside him, playing
for him, singing for him, laughing for him. Frank told her he was going
to have her laugh set to music by the fairies, and have it sung by the
brightest birds of Eden.
The afternoon was warm and dreamy; a soft haze shrouded the air; the
softest breeze floated through the thick summer foliage.
Nina was mounted upon her coal-black Zephyr—a most _zepherial_ little
piece of horse-flesh, fleet as the wind. Frank was by her side.
“Which way to-day, dear Nina?”
“Which ever way Zephyr takes.”
Zephyr took the road to Beverly Park. The Hall had been refitted, and
looked itself again. The two rode through the park and grounds, viewing
the improvements that had been made, alighting at length before the
great door of the Hall.
“Stay, sweet Nina; there is one spot I wish to show you, you never have
seen it. It was not completed till yesterday.”
Frank led her through the garden to the most poetic little arbor ever
Eastern dame sighed in. Recal to your mind the most beautiful poetry you
ever read or dreamed of—your beau-ideal of poetry—whether it be
Byron’s, Shelley’s, Shakspeare’s, your own, or Mother Goose’s, and the
little poem of an arbor stands in its beauty before you.
Nina’s delight was rapturous. After exhausting all the known adjectives
in its praise, Nina sat quietly down within it, Francis by her side, and
talked with him about music, and flowers, and poetry, and all the bright
things in nature. She was playful and enthusiastic by turns. Every thing
by fits, and nothing long.
Frank took her hand at last—her little, soft, warm hand—and calling up
a serious, tender look—
“Nina,” said he, “I have traveled the world over, ay, more than once; I
have seen many, very many beautiful beings; but never one like thee,
sweet Nina. I will not _say_ thou art the most beautiful, but I _will_
say, thou art the most necessary to my existence, to my whole nature, of
all earth contains. I love thee. _Dearest_ Nina, may I call thee mine?”
“Whew! The girl and her fleet Zephyr were gone.”
“Gone!—well—”
“Well what, good Sprite?”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, my very good Sprite. What then?”
“I may be allowed to criticise?”
“Certainly.”
“I do not like your story. It is not—”
“No!”
“It is neither well expressed, nor well arranged, nor at all
satisfactory. The _sequel_! Were they, Frank and Nina, married? What’s a
story without a wedding?”
“The sequel thou shalt have; the wedding too. They _were_ married, just
three weeks after the arbor scene—Frank and Nina.”
“What became of Edward and Clara?”
“They became one, shortly after Frank started on his thirteen years
pilgrimage.”
“Frank’s mother?”
“Went to live with Edward and Clara. She died at a happy old age,
blessed with good children, and good grand—”
“Kate and George?”
“Were united in the holy bands of wedlock.”
“The Miss Linwoods?”
“_Miss_ Linwood, never having made up her mind on ‘the all-important
subject,’ remained in _statu quo_. Miss Laura Linwood eloped with a
younger son’s younger son.”
“Was Edward a Beverly?”
“Yes.”
“What was Nina’s name? Nina _what_, before she became a Beverly?”
“Nina—I have forgotten what.”
“Strange.”
“Any thing more, good Sprite?”
“Much more; you seem to forget the great importance of a moral.”
“Not in the least, good natured Sprite. The moral is, doing right is its
own exceeding great reward.”
* * * * *
[Illustration]
* * * * *
THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;
OR, ROSE BUDD.
Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool
I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but
Travelers must be content. As You Like It.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,”
“MILES WALLINGFORD,” &c.
[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by
J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court
of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]
(_Continued from page 228._)
PART VII.
Thou art the same, eternal sea!
The earth has many shapes and forms,
Of hill and valley, flower and tree;
Fields that the fervid noontide warms,
Or winter’s rugged grasp deforms,
Or bright with autumn’s golden store;
Thou coverest up thy face with storms,
Or smilest serene,—but still thy roar
And dashing foam go up to vex the sea-beat shore.
Lunt.
We shall now advance the time eight-and-forty hours. The baffling winds
and calms that succeeded the tornado had gone, and the trades blew in
their stead. Both vessels had disappeared, the brig leading, doubling
the western extremity of the reef, and going off before both wind and
current, with flowing sheets, fully three hours before the sloop-of-war
could beat up against the latter, to a point that enabled her to do the
same thing. By that time, the Swash was five-and-twenty miles to the
eastward, and consequently but just discernible in her loftiest sails,
from the ship’s royal yards. Still, the latter continued the chase; and
that evening both vessels were beating down along the southern margin of
the Florida Reef, against the trades, but favored by a three or a four
knot current, the brig out of sight to windward. Our narrative leads us
to lose sight of both these vessels, for a time, in order to return to
the Islets of the Gulf. Eight-and-forty hours had made some changes in
and around the haven of the Dry Tortugas. The tent still stood, and a
small fire that was boiling its pot and its kettle, at no great distance
from it, proved that the tent was still inhabited. The schooner also
rode at her anchors, very much as she had been abandoned by Spike. The
bag of doubloons, however, had been found, and there it lay, tied but
totally unguarded, in the canvas verandah of Rose Budd’s habitation.
Jack Tier passed and repassed it with apparent indifference, as he went
to and fro, between his pantry and kitchen, busy as a bee in preparing
his noontide meal for the day. This man seemed to have the islet all to
himself, however, no one else being visible on any part of it. He sang
his song, in a cracked, _contre alto_ voice, and appeared to be happy in
his solitude. Occasionally he talked to himself aloud, most probably
because he had no one else to speak to. We shall record one of his
recitatives, which came in between the strains of a very inharmonious
air, the words of which treated of the seas, while the steward’s
assistant was stirring an exceedingly savory mess that he had concocted
of the ingredients to be found in the united larders of the Swash and
the Mexican schooner.
“Stephen Spike is a capital willian!” exclaimed Jack, smelling at a
ladle filled with his soup—“a capital willian, I call him. To think, at
his time of life, of such a handsome and pleasant young thing as this
Rose Budd; and then to try to get her by underhand means, and by making
a fool of her silly old aunt. It’s wonderful what fools some old aunts
be! Quite wonderful! If I was as great a simpleton as this Mrs. Budd,
I’d never cross my threshold. Yes, Stephen Spike is a prodigious
willian, as his best friend must own! Well, I gave him a thump on the
head that he’ll not forget this v’y’ge. To think of carryin’ off that
pretty Rose Budd in his very arms, in so indecent a manner! Yet, the man
has his good p’ints, if a body could only forget his bad ones. He’s a
first-rate seaman. How he worked the brig till he doubled the reef,
a’ter she got into open water; and how he made her walk off afore the
wind, with stun’sails alow and aloft, as soon as ever he could make ’em
draw! My life for it, he’ll tire the legs of Uncle Sam’s man, afore he
can fetch up with him. For running away, when hard chased, Stephen Spike
hasn’t his equal on ’arth. But, he’s a great willian—a prodigious
willian! I cannot say I actually wish him hanged; but I would rather
have him hanged than see him get pretty Rose in his power. What has he
to do with girls of nineteen? If the rascal is one year old he’s
fifty-six. I hope the sloop-of-war will find her match, and I think she
will. The Molly’s a great traveler, and not to be outdone easily.
’Twould be a thousand pities so lovely a craft should be cut off in the
flower of her days, as it might be, and I _do_ hope she’ll lead that
bloody sloop on some sunken rock.”
“Well, there’s the other bag of doubloons. It seems Stephen could not
get it. That’s odd, too, for he’s great at grabbin’ gold. The man bears
his age well; but he’s a willian! I wonder whether he or Mulford made
that half-board in the narrow channel. It was well done, and Stephen is
a perfect sailor; but he says Mulford is the same. Nice young man, that
Mulford; just fit for Rose, and Rose for him. Pity to part them. Can
find no great fault with him, except that he has too much conscience.
There’s such a thing as having too much, as well as too little
conscience. Mulford has too much, and Spike has too little. For him to
think of carryin’ off a gal of nineteen! I say he’s fifty-six, if he’s a
day. How fond he used to be of this very soup. If I’ve seen him eat a
quart of it, I’ve seen him eat a puncheon full of it, in my time. What
an appetite the man has when he’s had a hard day’s duty on’t! There’s a
great deal to admire, and a great deal to like in Stephen Spike, but
he’s a reg’lar willian. I dare say he fancies himself a smart, jaunty
youth ag’in, as I can remember him; a lad of twenty, which was about his
years when I first saw him, by the sign that I was very little turned of
fifteen myself. Spike _was_ comely then, though I acknowledge he’s a
willian. I can see him now, with his deep blue roundabout, his
bell-mouthed trowsers, both of fine cloth—too fine for such a
willian—but fine it was, and much did it become him.”
Here Jack made a long pause, during which, though he may have thought
much, he said nothing. Nevertheless, he wasn’t idle the while. On the
contrary, he passed no less than three several times from the fire to
the tent, and returned. Each time, in going and coming, he looked
intently at the bag of doubloons, though he did not stop at it or touch
it. Some associations connected with Spike’s fruitless attempts to
obtain it must have formed its principal interest with this singular
being, as he muttered his captain’s name each time in passing, though he
said no more audibly. The concerns of the dinner carried him back and
forth; and in his last visit to the tent, he began to set a small
table—one that had been brought for the convenience of Mrs. Budd and
her niece, from the brig, and which of course still remained on the
islet. It was while thus occupied, that Jack Tier recommenced his
soliloquy.
“I hope that money may do some worthy fellow good yet. It’s Mexican
gold, and that’s inemy’s gold, and might be condemned by law, I do
suppose. Stephen had a hankerin’ a’ter it, but he did not get it. It
come easy enough to the next man that tried. That Spike’s a willian, and
the gold was too good for him. He has no conscience at all to think of a
gal of nineteen! And one fit for his betters, in the bargain. The time
_has_ been when Stephen Spike might have pretended to Rose Budd’s equal.
That much I’ll ever maintain, but that time’s gone; and, what is more,
it will never come again. I should like Mulford better if he had a
little less conscience. Conscience may do for Uncle Sam’s ships, but it
is sometimes in the way aboard a trading craft. What can a fellow do
with a conscience when dollars is to be smuggled off, or tobacco
smuggled ashore? I do suppose I’ve about as much conscience as it is
useful to have, and I’ve got ashore in my day twenty thousand dollars’
worth of stuff, of one sort or another, if I’ve got ashore the valie of
ten dollars. But Spike carries on business on too large a scale, and
many’s the time I’ve told him so. I could have forgiven him any thing
but this attempt on Rose Budd; and he’s altogether too old for that, to
say nothing of other people’s rights. He’s an up-and-down willian, and a
body can make no more, nor any less of him. That soup must be near done,
and I’ll hoist the signal for grub.”
This signal was a blue-peter, of which one had been brought ashore to
signal the brig; and with which Jack now signaled the schooner. If the
reader will turn his eyes toward the last named vessel, he will find the
guests whom Tier expected to surround his table. Rose, her aunt, and
Biddy were all seated, under an awning made by a sail, on the deck of
the schooner, which now floated so buoyantly as to show that she had
been materially lightened since last seen. Such indeed was the fact, and
he who had been the instrument of producing this change, appeared on
deck in the person of Mulford, as soon as he was told that the
blue-peter of Jack Tier was flying.
The boat of the light-house, that in which Spike had landed in quest of
Rose, was lying alongside of the schooner, and sufficiently explained
the manner in which the mate had left the brig. This boat, in fact, had
been fastened astern, in the hurry of getting from under the
sloop-of-war’s fire, and Mulford had taken the opportunity of the
consternation and frantic efforts produced by the explosion of the last
shell thrown, to descend from his station on the coach-house into this
boat, to cut the painter, and to let the Swash glide away from him. This
the vessel had done with great rapidity, leaving him unseen under the
cover of her stern. As soon as in the boat, the mate had seized an oar,
and sculled to an islet that was within fifty yards, concealing the boat
behind a low hummock that formed a tiny bay. All this was done so
rapidly, that united to the confusion on board the Swash, no one
discovered the mate or the boat. Had he been seen, however, it is very
little probable that Spike would have lost a moment of time, in the
attempt to recover either. But he was not seen, and it was the general
opinion on board the Swash, for quite an hour, that her handsome mate
had been knocked overboard and killed, by a fragment of the shell that
had seemed to explode almost in the ears of her people. When the reef
was doubled, however, and Spike made his preparations for meeting the
rough water, he hove to, and ordered his own yawl which was also towing
astern, to be hauled up alongside, in order to be hoisted in. Then,
indeed, some glimmerings of the truth were shed on the crew, who missed
the lighthouse boat. Though many contended that its painter must also
have been cut by a fragment of the shell, and that the mate had died
loyal to roguery and treason. Mulford was much liked by the crew, and he
was highly valued by Spike, on account of his seamanship and integrity,
this latter being a quality that is just as necessary for one of the
captain’s character to meet with in those he trusts as to any other man.
But Spike thought differently of the cause of Mulford’s disappearance,
from his crew. He ascribed it altogether to love for Rose, when, in
truth, it ought in justice to have been quite as much imputed to a
determination to sail no longer with a man who was clearly guilty of
treason. Of smuggling, Mulford had long suspected Spike, though he had
no direct proof of the fact; but now he could not doubt that he was not
only engaged in supplying the enemy with the munitions of war, but was
actively bargaining to sell his brig for a hostile cruiser, and possibly
to transfer himself and crew along with her.
It is scarcely necessary to speak of the welcome Mulford received when
he reached the islet of the tent. He and Rose had a long private
conference, the result of which was to let the handsome mate into the
secret of his pretty companion’s true feelings toward himself. She had
received him with tears, and a betrayal of emotion that gave him every
encouragement, and now she did not deny her preference. In that
interview the young people plighted to each other their troth. Rose
never doubted of obtaining her aunt’s consent in due time, all her
prejudices being in favor of the sea and sailors, and should she not,
she would soon be her own mistress, and at liberty to dispose of herself
and her pretty little fortune as she might choose. But a cypher as she
was, in all questions of real moment, Mrs. Budd was not a person likely
to throw any real obstacle in the way of the young people’s wishes; the
true grounds of whose present apprehensions were all to be referred to
Spike, his intentions, and his well known perseverance. Mulford was
convinced that the brig would be back in quest of the remaining
doubloons, as soon as she could get clear of the sloop-of-war, though he
was not altogether without a hope that the latter, when she found it
impossible to overhaul her chase; might also return in order to
ascertain what discoveries could be made in and about the schooner. The
explosion of the powder, on the islet, must have put the man-of-war’s
men in possession of the secret of the real quality of the flour that
had composed her cargo, and it doubtless had awakened all their distrust
on the subject of the Swash’s real business in the Gulf. Under all the
circumstances, therefore, it did appear quite as probable that one of
the parties should reappear at the scene of their recent interview as
the other.
Bearing all these things in mind, Mulford had lost no time in completing
his own arrangements. He felt that he had some atonement to make to the
country, for the part he had seemingly taken in the late events, and it
occurred to him, could he put the schooner in a state to be moved, then
place her in the hands of the authorities, his own peace would be made,
and his character cleared. Rose no sooner understood his plans and
motives, than she entered into them with all the ardor and self-devotion
of her sex; for the single hour of confidential and frank communication
which had just passed, doubled the interest she felt in Mulford and in
all that belonged to him. Jack Tier was useful on board a vessel, though
his want of stature and force, rendered him less so than was common with
sea-faring men. His proper sphere certainly had been the cabins, where
his usefulness was beyond all cavil; but he was now very serviceable to
Mulford on the deck of the schooner. The first two days, Mrs. Budd had
been left on the islet, to look to the concerns of the kitchen, while
Mulford, accompanied by Rose, Biddy and Jack Tier had gone off to the
schooner, and set her pumps in motion again. It was little that Rose
could do, or indeed attempt to do, at this toil, but the pumps being
small and easily worked, Biddy and Jack were of great service. By the
end of the second day the pumps sucked; the cargo that remained in the
schooner, as well as the form of her bottom, contributing greatly to
lessen the quantity of the water that was to be got out of her.
Then it was that the doubloons fell into Mulford’s hands, along with
every thing else that remained below decks. It was perhaps fortunate
that the vessel was thoroughly purified by her immersion, and the
articles that were brought on deck to be dried were found in a condition
to give no great offence to those who removed them. By leaving the
hatches off, and the cabin doors open, the warm winds of the trades
effectually dried the interior of the schooner in the course of a single
night, and when Mulford repaired on board of her, on the morning of the
third day, he found her in a condition to be fitted for his purposes. On
this occasion Mrs. Budd had expressed a wish to go off to look at her
future accommodations, and Jack was left on the islet to cook the
dinner, which will explain the actual state of things as described in
the opening of this chapter.
As those who toil usually have a relish for their food, the appearance
of the blue-peter was far from being unwelcome to those on board of the
schooner. They got into the boat, and were sculled ashore by Mulford,
who, seaman-like, used only one hand in performing this service. In a
very few minutes they were all seated at the little table, which was
brought out into the tent-verandah for the enjoyment of the breeze.
“So far, well,” said Mulford, after his appetite was mainly appeased;
Rose picking crumbs, and affecting to eat merely to have the air of
keeping him company; one of the minor proofs of the little attentions
that spring from the affections. “So far, well. The sails are bent, and
though they might be newer and better, they can be made to answer, it
was fortunate to find any thing like a second suit on board a Mexican
craft of that size at all. As it is, we have foresail, mainsail and jib,
and with that canvas I think we might beat the schooner down to Key West
in the course of a day and a night. If I dared to venture outside of the
reef, it might be done sooner even, for they tell me there is a
four-knot current sometimes in that track; but I do not like to venture
outside, so short-handed. The current inside must serve our turn, and we
shall get smooth water by keeping under the lee of the rocks. I only
hope we shall not get into an eddy as we go further from the end of the
reef, and into the bight of the coast.”
“Is there danger of that?” demanded Rose, whose quick intellect had
taught her many of these things, since her acquaintance with vessels.
“There may be, looking at the formation of the reef and islands, though
I know nothing of the fact by actual observation. This is my first visit
in this quarter.”
“Eddies are serious matters,” put in Mrs. Budd, “and my poor husband
could not abide them. Tides are good things; but eddies are very
disagreeable.”
“Well, aunty, I should think eddies might sometimes be as welcome as
tides. It must depend, however, very much on the way one wishes to go.”
“Rose, you surprise me! All that you have read, and all that you have
heard, must have shown you the difference. Do they not say ‘a man is
floating with the tide,’ when things are prosperous with him—and don’t
ships drop down with the tide, and beat the wind with the tide? And
don’t vessels sometimes ‘tide it up to town,’ as it is called, and isn’t
it thought an advantage to have the tide with you?”
“All very true, aunty, but I do not see how that makes eddies any the
worse.”
“Because eddies are the opposites of tides, child. When the tide goes
one way, the eddy goes another—isn’t it so, Harry Mulford? You never
heard of one’s floating in an eddy.”
“That’s what we mean by an eddy, Mrs. Budd,” answered the handsome mate,
delighted to hear Rose’s aunt call him by an appellation so kind and
familiar,—a thing she had never done previously to the intercourse
which had been the consequence of their present situation. “Though I
agree with Rose in thinking an eddy may be a good or a bad thing, and
very much like a tide, as one wishes to steer.”
“You amaze me, both of you! Tides are always spoken of favorably, but
eddies never. If a ship gets ashore, the tide can float her off; _that_
I’ve heard a thousand times. Then, what do the newspapers say of
President ——, and Governor ——, and Congressman ——?[3] Why, that
they all ‘float in the tide of public opinion,’ and that must mean
something particularly good, as they are always in office. No, no,
Harry; I’ll acknowledge that you do know something about ships; a good
deal, considering how young you are; but you have something to learn
about eddies. Never trust one as long as you live.”
Mulford was silent, and Rose took the occasion to change the discourse.
“I hope we shall soon be able to quit this place,” she said; “for I
confess to some dread of Capt. Spike’s return.”
“Capt. Stephen Spike has greatly disappointed me,” observed the aunt,
gravely. “I do not know that I was ever before deceived in judging a
person. I could have sworn he was an honest, frank, well-meaning
sailor—a character, of all others, that I love; but it has turned out
otherwise.”
“He’s a willian!” muttered Jack Tier.
Mulford smiled; at which speech we must leave to conjecture; but he
answered Rose, as he ever did, promptly and with pleasure.
“The schooner is ready, and this must be our last meal ashore,” he said.
“Our outfit will be no great matter; but if it will carry us down to Key
West, I shall ask no more of it. As for the return of the Swash, I look
upon it as certain. She could easily get clear of the sloop-of-war, with
the start she had, and Spike is a man that never yet abandoned a
doubloon, when he knew where one was to be found.”
“Stephen Spike is like all his fellow-creatures,” put in Jack Tier,
pointedly. “He has his faults, and he has his virtues.”
“Virtue is a term I should never think of applying to such a man,”
returned Mulford, a little surprised at the fellow’s earnestness. “The
word is a big one, and belongs to quite another class of persons.” Jack
muttered a few syllables that were unintelligible, when again the
conversation changed.
Rose now inquired of Mulford as to their prospects of getting to Key
West. He told her that the distance was about sixty miles; their route
lying along the north or inner side of the Florida Reef. The whole
distance was to be made against the trade wind, which was then blowing
about an eight-knot breeze, though, bating eddies, they might expect to
be favored with the current, which was less strong inside than outside
of the reef. As for handling the schooner, Mulford saw no great
difficulty in that. She was not large, and was both lightly sparred and
lightly rigged. All her top-hamper had been taken down by Spike, and
nothing remained but the plainest and most readily-managed gear. A
fore-and-aft vessel, sailing close by the wind, is not difficult to
steer; will almost steer herself, indeed, in smooth water. Jack Tier
could take his trick at the helm, in any weather, even in running before
the wind, the time when it is most difficult to guide a craft, and Rose
might be made to understand the use of the tiller, and taught to govern
the motions of a vessel so small and so simply rigged, when on a wind
and in smooth water. On the score of managing the schooner, therefore,
Mulford thought there would be little cause for apprehension. Should the
weather continue settled, he had little doubt of safely landing the
whole party at Key West, in the course of the next four-and-twenty
hours. Short sail he should be obliged to carry, as well on account of
the greater facility of managing it, as on account of the circumstance
that the schooner was now in light ballast trim, and would not bear much
canvas. He thought that the sooner they left the islets the better, as
it could not be long ere the brig would be seen hovering around the
spot. All these matters were discussed as the party still sat at table;
and when they left it, which was a few minutes later, it was to remove
the effects they intended to carry away to the boat. This was soon done,
both Jack Tier and Biddy proving very serviceable, while Rose tripped
backward and forward, with a step elastic as a gazelle’s, carrying light
burdens. In half an hour the boat was ready. “Here lies the bag of
doubloons still,” said Mulford, smiling. “Is it to be left, or shall we
give it up to the admiralty court at Key West, and put in a claim for
salvage?”
“Better leave it for Spike,” said Jack, unexpectedly. “Should he come
back, and find the doubloons, he may be satisfied, and not look for the
schooner. On the other hand, when the vessel is missing, he will think
that the money is in her. Better leave it for old Stephen.”
“I do not agree with you, Tier,” said Rose, though she looked as
amicably at the steward’s assistant, as she thus opposed his opinion, as
if anxious to persuade, rather than coerce. “I do not quite agree with
you. This money belongs to the Spanish merchant; and, as we take away
with us his vessel, to give it up to the authorities at Key West, I do
not think we have a right to put his gold on the shore and abandon it.”
This disposed of the question. Mulford took the bag, and carried it to
the boat, without waiting to ascertain if Jack had any objection; while
the whole party followed. In a few minutes every body and every thing in
the boat were transferred to the deck of the schooner. As for the tent,
the old sails of which it was made, the furniture it contained, and such
articles of provisions as were not wanted, they were left on the islet,
without regret. The schooner had several casks of fresh water, which
were found in her hold, and she had also a cask or two of salted meats,
besides several articles of food more delicate, that had been provided
by Señor Montefalderon for his own use, and which had not been damaged
by the water. A keg of Boston crackers were among these eatables, quite
half of which were still in a state to be eaten. They were Biddy’s
delight; and it was seldom that she could be seen when not nibbling at
one of them. The bread of the crew was hopelessly damaged. But Jack had
made an ample provision of bread, when sent ashore, and there was still
a hundred barrels of the flour in the schooner’s hold. One of these had
been hoisted on deck by Mulford, and opened. The injured flour was
easily removed, leaving a considerable quantity fit for the uses of the
kitchen. As for the keg of gunpowder, it was incontinently committed to
the deep.
Thus provided for, Mulford decided that the time had arrived when he
ought to quit his anchorage. He had been employed most of that morning
in getting the schooner’s anchor, a work of great toil to him, though
everybody had assisted. He had succeeded, and the vessel now rode by a
kedge that he could easily weigh by means of a deck tackle. It remained
now, therefore, to lift this kedge and to stand out of the bay of the
islets. No sooner was the boat secured astern, and its freight disposed
of than the mate began to make sail. In order to hoist the mainsail well
up, he was obliged to carry the halyards to the windlass. Thus aided, he
succeeded without much difficulty. He and Jack Tier and Biddy got the
jib hoisted by hand; and as for the foresail, that would almost set
itself. Of course, it was not touched until the kedge was aweigh.
Mulford found little difficulty in lifting the last, and he soon had the
satisfaction of finding his craft clear of the ground. As Jack Tier was
every way competent to taking charge of the forecastle, Mulford now
sprang aft, and took his own station at the helm; Rose acting as his
pretty assistant on the quarter-deck.
There is little mystery in getting a fore-and-aft vessel under way. Her
sails fill almost as a matter of course, and motion follows as a
necessary law. Thus did it prove with the Mexican schooner, which turned
out to be a fast sailing and an easily worked craft. She was, indeed, an
American bottom, as it is termed, having been originally built for the
Chesapeake; and, though not absolutely what is understood by a Baltimore
clipper, so nearly of that mould and nature as to possess some of the
more essential qualities. As usually happens, however, when a foreigner
gets hold of an American schooner, the Mexicans had shorted her masts
and lessened her canvas. This circumstance was rather an advantage to
Mulford, who would probably have had more to attend to than he wished
under the original rig of the craft.
Everybody, even to the fastidious Mrs. Budd, was delighted with the easy
and swift movement of the schooner. Mulford, now he had got her under
canvas, handled her without any difficulty, letting her stand toward the
channel through which he intended to pass, with her sheets just taken
in, though compelled to keep a little off, in order to enter between the
islets. No difficulty occurred, however, and in less than ten minutes
the vessel was clear of the channels, and in open water. The sheets were
now flattened in, and the schooner brought close by the wind. A trial of
the vessel on this mode of sailing was no sooner made, than Mulford was
induced to regret he had taken so many precautions against any
increasing power of the wind. To meet emergencies, and under the notion
he should have his craft more under command, the young man had reefed
his mainsail, and taken the bonnets off of the foresail and jib. As the
schooner stood up better than he had anticipated, the mate felt as all
seamen are so apt to feel, when they see that their vessels might be
made to perform more than is actually got out of them. As the breeze was
fresh, however, he determined not to let out the reef; and the labor of
lacing on the bonnets again was too great to be thought of just at that
moment.
We all find relief on getting in motion, when pressed by circumstances.
Mulford had been in great apprehension of the re-appearance of the Swash
all that day; for it was about the time when Spike would be apt to
return, in the event of his escaping from the sloop-of-war, and he
dreaded Rose’s again falling into the hands of a man so desperate. Nor
is it imputing more than a very natural care to the young man, to say,
that he had some misgivings concerning himself. Spike, by this time,
must be convinced that his business in the Gulf was known; and one who
had openly thrown off his service, as his mate had done, would
unquestionably be regarded as a traitor to _his_ interests, whatever
might be the relation in which he would stand to the laws of the
country. It was probable such an alleged offender would not be allowed
to appear before the tribunals of the land, to justify himself and to
accuse the truly guilty, if it were in the power of the last to prevent
it. Great, therefore, was the satisfaction of our handsome young mate,
when he found himself again fairly in motion, with a craft under him,
that glided ahead in a way to prove that she might give even the Swash
some trouble to catch her, in the event of a trial of speed.
Everybody entered into the feelings of Mulford, as the schooner passed
gallantly out from between the islets, and entered the open water.
Fathom by fathom did her wake rapidly increase, until it could no longer
be traced back as far as the sandy beaches that had just been left. In a
quarter of an hour more, the vessel had drawn so far from the land, that
some of the smaller and lowest of the islets were getting to be
indistinct. At that instant everybody had come aft, the females taking
their seats on the trunk which, in this vessel as in the Swash herself,
gave space and height to the cabin.
“Well,” exclaimed Mrs. Budd, who found the freshness of the sea air
invigorating, as well as their speed exciting, “this is what I call
maritime, Rosy dear. This is what is meant by the Maritime States, about
which we read so much, and which are commonly thought to be so
important. We are now in a Maritime State, and I feel perfectly happy,
after all our dangers and adventures!”
“Yes, aunty, and I am delighted that you _are_ happy,” answered Rose,
with frank affection. “We are now rid of that infamous Spike, and may
hope never to see his face more.”
“Stephen Spike has his good p’ints as well as another,” said Jack Tier,
abruptly.
“I know that he is an old shipmate of yours, Tier, and that you cannot
forget how he once stood connected with you, and am sorry I have said so
much against him,” answered Rose, expressing her concern even more by
her looks and tones, than by her words.
Jack was mollified by this, and he let his feeling be seen, though he
said no more than to mutter, “He’s a willian!” words that had frequently
issued from his lips within the last day or two.
“Stephen Spike is a capital seaman, and that is something in any man,”
observed the relict of Capt. Budd. “He learned his trade from one who
was every way qualified to teach him, and it’s no wonder he should be
expert. Do you expect, Mr. Mulford, to beat the wind the whole distance
to Key West?”
It was not possible for any one to look more grave than the mate did
habitually, while the widow was floundering through her sea-terms. Rose
had taught him that respect for her aunt was to be one of the conditions
of her own regard, though Rose had never opened her lips to him on the
subject.
“Yes, ma’am,” answered the mate, respectfully, “we are in the trades,
and shall have to turn to windward, every inch of the way to Key West.”
“Of what lock is this place the key, Rosy?” asked the aunt, innocently
enough. “I know that forts and towns are sometimes called keys, but they
always have locks of some sort or other. Now, Gibraltar is the key of
the Mediterranean, as your uncle has told me fifty times; and I have
been there, and can understand why it should be,—but I do not know of
what lock this West is the key.”
“It is not that sort of key which is meant, aunty, at all—but quite a
different thing. The key meant is an island.”
“And why should any one be so silly as to call an island a key?”
“The place where vessels unload is sometimes called a key,” answered
Mulford;—“the French calling it a _quai_, and the Dutch kaye. I suppose
our English word is derived from these. Now, a low, sandy island,
looking somewhat like keys, or wharves, seamen have given them this
name. Key West is merely a low island.”
“Then there is no lock to it, or anything to be unfastened,” said the
widow, in her most simple manner.