During the next two months many things happened. It had early transpired
that Rosannah, poor suffering orphan, had neither returned to her
grandmother in Portland, Oregon, nor sent any word to her save a
duplicate of the woeful note she had left in the mansion on Telegraph
Hill. Whosoever was sheltering her--if she was still alive--had been
persuaded not to betray her whereabouts, without doubt; for all efforts
to find trace of her had failed.
Did Alonzo give her up? Not he. He said to himself, “She will sing
that sweet song when she is sad; I shall find her.” So he took his
carpet-sack and a portable telephone, and shook the snow of his native
city from his arctics, and went forth into the world. He wandered far
and wide and in many states. Time and again, strangers were astounded to
see a wasted, pale, and woe-worn man laboriously climb a telegraph-pole
in wintry and lonely places, perch sadly there an hour, with his ear at
a little box, then come sighing down, and wander wearily away. Sometimes
they shot at him, as peasants do at aeronauts, thinking him mad and
dangerous. Thus his clothes were much shredded by bullets and his person
grievously lacerated. But he bore it all patiently.
In the beginning of his pilgrimage he used often to say, “Ah, if I could
but hear the 'Sweet By-and-by'!” But toward the end of it he used to
shed tears of anguish and say, “Ah, if I could but hear something else!”
Thus a month and three weeks drifted by, and at last some humane people
seized him and confined him in a private mad-house in New York. He made
no moan, for his strength was all gone, and with it all heart and all
hope. The superintendent, in pity, gave up his own comfortable parlor
and bedchamber to him and nursed him with affectionate devotion.
At the end of a week the patient was able to leave his bed for the first
time. He was lying, comfortably pillowed, on a sofa, listening to the
plaintive Miserere of the bleak March winds and the muffled sound of
tramping feet in the street below for it was about six in the evening,
and New York was going home from work. He had a bright fire and the
added cheer of a couple of student-lamps. So it was warm and snug
within, though bleak and raw without; it was light and bright within,
though outside it was as dark and dreary as if the world had been lit
with Hartford gas. Alonzo smiled feebly to think how his loving vagaries
had made him a maniac in the eyes of the world, and was proceeding to
pursue his line of thought further, when a faint, sweet strain, the very
ghost of sound, so remote and attenuated it seemed, struck upon his ear.
His pulses stood still; he listened with parted lips and bated
breath. The song flowed on--he waiting, listening, rising slowly and
unconsciously from his recumbent position. At last he exclaimed:
“It is! it is she! Oh, the divine hated notes!”
He dragged himself eagerly to the corner whence the sounds proceeded,
tore aside a curtain, and discovered a telephone. He bent over, and as
the last note died away he burst forthwith the exclamation:
“Oh, thank Heaven, found at last! Speak to me, Rosannah, dearest! The
cruel mystery has been unraveled; it was the villain Burley who mimicked
my voice and wounded you with insolent speech!”
There was a breathless pause, a waiting age to Alonzo; then a faint
sound came, framing itself into language:
“Oh, say those precious words again, Alonzo!”
“They are the truth, the veritable truth, my Rosannah, and you shall
have the proof, ample and abundant proof!”
“Oh; Alonzo, stay by me! Leave me not for a moment! Let me feel that you
are near me! Tell me we shall never be parted more! Oh, this happy hour,
this blessed hour, this memorable hour!”
“We will make record of it, my Rosannah; every year, as this dear hour
chimes from the clock, we will celebrate it with thanksgivings, all the
years of our life.”
“We will, we will, Alonzo!”
“Four minutes after six, in the evening, my Rosannah, shall
henceforth--”
“Twenty-three minutes after twelve, afternoon shall--”
“Why; Rosannah, darling, where are you?”
“In Honolulu, Sandwich Islands. And where are you? Stay by me; do not
leave me for a moment. I cannot bear it. Are you at home?”
“No, dear, I am in New York--a patient in the doctor's hands.”
An agonizing shriek came buzzing to Alonzo's ear, like the sharp buzzing
of a hurt gnat; it lost power in traveling five thousand miles. Alonzo
hastened to say:
“Calm yourself, my child. It is nothing. Already I am getting well under
the sweet healing of your presence. Rosannah?”
“Yes, Alonzo? Oh, how you terrified me! Say on.”
“Name the happy day, Rosannah!”
There was a little pause. Then a diffident small voice replied, “I
blush--but it is with pleasure, it is with happiness. Would--would you
like to have it soon?”
“This very night, Rosannah! Oh, let us risk no more delays. Let it be
now!--this very night, this very moment!”
“Oh, you impatient creature! I have nobody here but my good old uncle,
a missionary for a generation, and now retired from service--nobody but
him and his wife. I would so dearly like it if your mother and your Aunt
Susan--”
“Our mother and our Aunt Susan, my Rosannah.”
“Yes, our mother and our Aunt Susan--I am content to word it so if it
pleases you; I would so like to have them present.”
“So would I. Suppose you telegraph Aunt Susan. How long would it take
her to come?”
“The steamer leaves San Francisco day after tomorrow. The passage is
eight days. She would be here the 31st of March.”
“Then name the 1st of April; do, Rosannah, dear.”
“Mercy, it would make us April fools, Alonzo!”
“So we be the happiest ones that that day's suit looks down upon in the
whole broad expanse of the globe, why need we care? Call it the 1st of
April, dear.”
“Then the 1st of April at shall be, with all my heart!”
“Oh, happiness! Name the hour, too, Rosannah.”
“I like the morning, it is so blithe. Will eight in the morning do,
Alonzo?”
“The loveliest hour in the day--since it will make you mine.”
There was a feeble but frantic sound for some little time, as if
wool-lipped, disembodied spirits were exchanging kisses; then Rosannah
said, “Excuse me just a moment, dear; I have an appointment, and am
called to meet it.”
The young girl sought a large parlor and took her place at a window
which looked out upon a beautiful scene. To the left one could view the
charming Nuuana Valley, fringed with its ruddy flush of tropical flowers
and its plumed and graceful cocoa palms; its rising foothills clothed
in the shining green of lemon, citron, and orange groves; its storied
precipice beyond, where the first Kamehameha drove his defeated foes
over to their destruction, a spot that had forgotten its grim history,
no doubt, for now it was smiling, as almost always at noonday, under the
glowing arches of a succession of rainbows. In front of the window one
could see the quaint town, and here and there a picturesque group of
dusky natives, enjoying the blistering weather; and far to the right lay
the restless ocean, tossing its white mane in the sunshine.
Rosannah stood there, in her filmy white raiment, fanning her flushed
and heated face, waiting. A Kanaka boy, clothed in a damaged blue
necktie and part of a silk hat, thrust his head in at the door, and
announced, “'Frisco haole!”
“Show him in,” said the girl, straightening herself up and assuming a
meaning dignity. Mr. Sidney Algernon Burley entered, clad from head to
heel in dazzling snow--that is to say, in the lightest and whitest of
Irish linen. He moved eagerly forward, but the girl made a gesture and
gave him a look which checked him suddenly. She said, coldly, “I am
here, as I promised. I believed your assertions, I yielded to your
importune lies, and said I would name the day. I name the 1st of
April--eight in the morning. NOW GO!”
“Oh, my dearest, if the gratitude of a lifetime--”
“Not a word. Spare me all sight of you, all communication with you,
until that hour. No--no supplications; I will have it so.”
When he was gone, she sank exhausted in a chair, for the long siege of
troubles she had undergone had wasted her strength. Presently she
said, “What a narrow escape! If the hour appointed had been an hour
earlier--Oh, horror, what an escape I have made! And to think I had come
to imagine I was loving this beguiling, this truthless, this treacherous
monster! Oh, he shall repent his villainy!”
Let us now draw this history to a close, for little more needs to be
told. On the 2d of the ensuing April, the Honolulu Advertiser contained
this notice:
MARRIED.--In this city, by telephone, yesterday morning,--at eight
o'clock, by Rev. Nathan Hays, assisted by Rev. Nathaniel Davis, of
New York, Mr. Alonzo Fitz Clarence, of Eastport, Maine, U. S., and
Miss Rosannah Ethelton, of Portland, Oregon, U. S. Mrs. Susan
Howland, of San Francisco, a friend of the bride, was present, she
being the guest of the Rev. Mr. Hays and wife, uncle and aunt of the
bride. Mr. Sidney Algernon Burley, of San Francisco, was also
present but did not remain till the conclusion of the marriage
service. Captain Hawthorne's beautiful yacht, tastefully decorated,
was in waiting, and the happy bride and her friends immediately
departed on a bridal trip to Lahaina and Haleakala.
The New York papers of the same date contained this notice:
MARRIED.--In this city, yesterday, by telephone, at half-past two in
the morning, by Rev. Nathaniel Davis, assisted by Rev. Nathan Hays,
of Honolulu, Mr. Alonzo Fitz Clarence, of Eastport, Maine, and Miss
Rosannah Ethelton, of Portland, Oregon. The parents and several
friends of the bridegroom were present, and enjoyed a sumptuous
breakfast and much festivity until nearly sunrise, and then departed
on a bridal trip to the Aquarium, the bridegroom's state of health
not admitting of a more extended journey.
Toward the close of that memorable day Mr. and Mrs. Alonzo Fitz Clarence
were buried in sweet converse concerning the pleasures of their several
bridal tours, when suddenly the young wife exclaimed: “Oh, Lonny, I
forgot! I did what I said I would.”
“Did you, dear?”
“Indeed, I did. I made him the April fool! And I told him so, too!
Ah, it was a charming surprise! There he stood, sweltering in a black
dress-suit, with the mercury leaking out of the top of the thermometer,
waiting to be married. You should have seen the look he gave when I
whispered it in his ear. Ah, his wickedness cost me many a heartache
and many a tear, but the score was all squared up, then. So the vengeful
feeling went right out of my heart, and I begged him to stay, and said
I forgave him everything. But he wouldn't. He said he would live to be
avenged; said he would make our lives a curse to us. But he can't, can
he, dear?”
“Never in this world, my Rosannah!”
Aunt Susan, the Oregonian grandmother, and the young couple and their
Eastport parents, are all happy at this writing, and likely to remain
so. Aunt Susan brought the bride from the islands, accompanied her
across our continent, and had the happiness of witnessing the rapturous
meeting between an adoring husband and wife who had never seen each
other until that moment.
A word about the wretched Burley, whose wicked machinations came so
near wrecking the hearts and lives of our poor young friends, will be
sufficient. In a murderous attempt to seize a crippled and helpless
artisan who he fancied had done him some small offense, he fell into a
caldron of boiling oil and expired before he could be extinguished.