TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.
—A Table of Contents was not in the original work; one has been
produced and added by Transcriber.
—In original work Chapters X and XI were missing; this peculiarity has
been manteined by Transcriber.
SEA-GIFT.
A NOVEL.
BY
EDWIN W. FULLER,
Author of “THE ANGEL IN THE CLOUD.”
NEW YORK:
E. J. HALE & SON, PUBLISHERS,
MURRAY STREET.
1873.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
E. J. HALE & SON,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I 7
II 12
III 16
IV 20
V 32
VI 46
VII 54
VIII 65
IX 88
XII 98
XIII 109
XIV 115
XV 124
XVI 132
XVII 152
XVIII 173
XIX 180
XX 191
XXI 195
XXII 208
XXIII 213
XXIV 221
XXV 226
XXVI 238
XXVII 243
XXVIII 250
XXIX 253
XXX 261
XXXI 271
XXXII 274
XXXIII 282
XXXIV 293
XXXV 302
XXXVI 312
XXXVII 322
XXXVIII 332
XXXIX 337
XL 339
XLI 343
XLII 350
XLIII 377
XLIV 388
XLV 392
XLVI 400
XLVII 406
PREFACE.
READER, my Book is before you!
If it has faults, you expect them; therefore excuse. If it has merit,
you are surprised; therefore applaud.
E. W. F.
I AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATE THIS
LOVE STORY
TO ONE WHO HAS TAUGHT ME THE BEAUTY AND DEPTH OF
WOMAN’S LOVE,
MY WIFE.
SEA-GIFT.
CHAPTER I.
AS THE usages of society generally require an introduction between
strangers before communications of any moment can transpire, I hasten
now to introduce myself, that the readers hereof, as yet strangers, but
whom I hope before long familiarly to call “gentle” and “dear,” may
acquire at least one element of interest in the narrative I propose to
offer, namely, acquaintance with its subject—modesty forbids me to say
hero.
I am, then, at your service, John——; no, I cannot call my own name,
it always sounds strange in my own mouth. I’ll hand you my card in a
moment; and while I am fingering nervously in my case for the best
engraved one I reflect:
Why should you listen with the slightest attention to my history? How
can I expect you to care any more for me and my affairs, than for
anybody else and anybody else’s affairs? What right have I to inflict
upon you a recital of events, in no way connected with yourself, that
three-fourths of you believe untrue, and that concerns parties you
never saw and perhaps never will see? None, reader, none!
All the attention you give must be entirely gratuitous, except what
I shall gain by tickling the selfish side of your nature; for I well
know that you like or dislike a book in proportion as yourselves are
flattered. This flattery, however, must not be the result of the
author’s effort, but your own. If the persons told of are beneath
you in morals or intellect, then it is pleasant to reflect on your
own superiority. Are they above you in these particulars? then you
are pleased to associate with them, so to speak, and to assign to
yourselves, in imagination, a similarity of conduct, under similar
circumstances. The book must also possess an ingenuity of thought and
expression that will make you conscious, to a flattering extent, of
your own ingenuity in detecting it. Hence, often the most pleasant
books to read are those that tell of simple things in such a way that
you exclaim:
“I could have written that myself, if I had only thought of it.”
To afford self-complacent comparisons to the conceited, to furnish
evidences of their own ingenuity to the soi-disant original, and to
give conscious improvement to the soberly studious, is a more difficult
task than I can undertake. I will simply tell my story, and leave the
self-bees to suck what honey they please out of it.
Ah! I have at last found it. Here is my card:
[Illustration: John Smith.]
You smile; you know me? No, I beg pardon, I have never had the honor of
your acquaintance. You may have known some of the Smiths, but not the
members of our immediate family. John is an old family name with us. My
father, grand and great grandfather, were all named John; in fact we
could ascend the family tree six squares, without getting out of the
Johns; and even the seventh, who was an H (H. T. Smith), was preceded
by numerous Johns, only to be distinguished from each other by the
middle initials. There was a John A. Smith, and a John B. Smith, and
a John C. Smith; coming down so alphabetically that I used to think,
when a child, that, as father and myself only had John for our names, a
great many Smiths, whose names were lost, had already lived, and used
up the balance of the alphabet for their middle initials.
Our family is a very large one, being represented in almost every
nation on the globe; but its vast extent is a matter of pride,
not reproach, with me. When I remember the long list of Warriors,
Statesmen, Scholars, and the immense army of USEMEN it has given to the
world, I conceive that the world owes the name a debt of gratitude,
and, being one of the creditors, I expect partial payment at least.
The name itself points to an artizan origin, but the sieve of centuries
has filtered our blood clear of the last dust of the anvil, and it
throbs in our veins with Heraclidean purity. Perhaps the majority of
my connections were men of humble birth, but where the number is so
immense, we can claim only those that are creditable. Consequently, the
aforesaid tree, hanging up in our library, with dusty, tarnished frame,
and an age-yellowed parchment, presented a very mottled appearance of
groups of very little blocks, with very little “_Smiths_” written on
them, and very large blocks, their names spelt in capitals, and with
broad red lines connecting them to us. These last were Smiths who
attained to something and were worth claiming. Away off in one corner,
with a great quantity of zigzag lines to make it even connect at all,
was the name of John Smith, with “Capt.” prefixed, and the date 1609.
Father used to take me on his knee, when I grew old enough to listen,
and tell me long stories about my brave relative, who had fought with
the Turks, slept on straw, (a fact which led me to believe that he was
also a kinsman of Margaret Daw), dared the Indians, looked calmly at
Powhatan’s lifted club, and then flirted with his gentle protectress,
Pocahontas. Her descendants, in Virginia, father told me, always
claimed kin with our family, though the relationship was based entirely
on this approximation to matrimony between our ancestors. I remember
well that I did not wish to recognise, as relatives, the children of
the mulatto her picture represented her to be; and I insisted that they
be put down with the little blocks and little Smiths, until he informed
me that many of them had become distinguished; and while it was quite a
disgrace in society to have had a dark ancestor with kinky hair, it was
quite an honor to have had a dark ancestor with straight hair. I have
seen, in life, since then, that social distinction often turns upon
less than the crook of a hair.
For our immediate family there were father and mother and I, after I
came.
My father was wealthy, owning a very large plantation near Goldsboro, a
fine residence in Wilmington, N. C., and some heavy renting real estate
in New York.
Possessing the means for it, he was fond of display, and stood among
the neighbors, in the country, as a proud, though popular man. They
admired his pride because it was above their envy, while his uniform
courtesy and kindness flattered all with whom he had intercourse. His
carriage at elections was sure to be welcomed with cheers, as it drove
on the grounds, though he could never be persuaded to dabble in the
turbulent waters of politics. In town, some loved, some envied, but all
respected him. His perfect integrity, his generosity, and his social
qualities, secured for him, at all times, a large circle of friends,
while there were some who, feeling socially equal, were surpassed by
him in character, both in their own eyes and in public opinion; these,
of course, regarded him with some disfavor.
But of mother no tongue spoke evil. Every one possesses a
distinguishing idiosyncrasy; hers was goodness—all that was
comprehended under St. Paul’s “charity.” There was no sounding brass
or tinkling cymbal about her life; it was one of unselfish love, active
benevolence, holy influence, and unassuming piety. I believe that the
only command in the Bible she could not obey was, “Take up thy cross,”
for her angelic temperament made every duty a pleasure, and every
sacrifice a source of happiness. Nor was she only theoretically good.
She put her faith into constant practice. When her pew was vacant
at church, the doctor was sure to be our visitor; the pupils in her
Sabbath school class made an entire transfer of the affections they
should have reserved for their own mothers to her; and our servants
refrained from any insolence and disobedience out of the purest
respect for her—a perfect anomaly in slavery. The meanest hut in
town could boast her presence if there was sickness within its walls;
and our dining-room servants brought a salver and napkin for charity
delicacies as regularly as they laid the cloth. Yet her charity was not
of that order which begins anywhere else but at home; everyone in our
house felt that she had a deep interest in them. Her smile was almost
constant, and when she did reprove there was a tone of regret about her
words, as if they pained her more than they did the recipient.
She and father were very happy together, though they lacked
congeniality. He was fond of display and gaiety, she fond of retirement
and quiet; his heart chiefly on the world, her’s all on heaven; he
haughty though courteous, she gentle and kind; he formal, she good
natured and easy in her every manner.
Father was a Polonius about dress, believing it should be “costly as
thy purse can buy;” and he inundated mother’s wardrobe with silks,
brocade and velvets, and constantly replenished her _bijouterie_
with jewels of rare value, till she was as much bewildered as Miss
McFlimsey, from a cause just the reverse. I have often smiled to see
her, just to please father, start to church in a magnificent train and
exquisite bonnet, looking for all the world like a poor dove, dressed
in peacock’s plumage.
But I must not plunge into affairs too rapidly. Having given this short
prologue before the curtain, I will now let it rise upon the first
scene.
Ring the bell!