ONE would hardly recognize in the tall youth the little boy that cried
so when called away from the party, but times and persons change a
great deal in seven years. Ned Cheyleigh is still my bosom friend,
nobler, truer and more manly, if a soul such as his can know any
degree of improvement. Frank Paning and myself, after innumerable
quarrels and make-ups, have grown somewhat intimate, partly from the
fact that our families are near neighbors, and partly because we are
thrown together so constantly at school, being the only two members
of a Latin class. He has lost much of his boyish rudeness, and when
it is politic is kind, obliging and pleasant, but I still often feel
in his presence the old sensation of repulsion. Lulie is still the
bone between us, though with infinite tact she contrives to preserve
the balance of feeling. Frank thinks he has the best of the contest,
and I often am obliged to think so too, though generally my conceit
and vanity keep my spirits up. Thus much for relative position as
regards each other. And if, reader, you have become interested in
us sufficiently to desire to see us personally, I will endeavor to
give you our pictures. First, then, is Ned, a rather stout, thick-set
figure; round open face, with large very blue eyes, firm mouth—not
expressed so much in the lips as in the set of the teeth beneath them;
brownish dark hair, which, though always kept short, always looks
dishevelled; nose the least prominent feature in his face, though
straight and well formed; his whole face expressing so much integrity
of conduct and candor of meaning, that Campanella would have sworn by
him without ever hearing him utter a word, though there was not as
much depth in it as a man of the world could have wished for. Frank
was almost his exact opposite, and much the handsomer of the two. His
form was very tall for his age, and graceful; his hair jet black, and
curling crisply over a well shaped head; his nose slightly aquiline
and long; his mouth, with very white teeth, was always a little
curled, either with a smile or a sneer; and, whatever his state of
feelings, it ever wore one of these expressions, their only variation
being an increased intensity. His eyes were rather small, very black,
yet showing a great deal of white in their oblique glances. He
always looked straight at you in ordinary pleasant converse, or when
he thought he had you at a disadvantage; but when himself in the
inferiority, his glance was down and aside, in fact every way but
into your eyes. For instance, he could never look his teacher in the
face when arraigned for a misdemeanor, yet he would gaze steadily at
a comrade while accusing him of wrong. And it was a frequent jest in
school that when Frank Paning’s eyes fell he was under “hack.”
But to give you an exact idea of Lulie Mayland is beyond my power. I
can describe well enough her bright sunny face, with its clear hazel
eyes, its dimpled chin and pouting lips, and her cheeks with the roses
coming and going with almost every word; but I cannot describe the
effect of the thoughts that seemed to be ever coming up from her soul
to her face, yet never uttered. There was always something more beneath
those eyes you longed to know. If she looked and expressed sorrow for
a misfortune, you knew, as you gazed into her face, there was a vast
well of sympathy untold. If she laughed, and laughing was her life’s
most constant phase, you felt that it was only the bubbles of mirth,
that its springs were yet to be sounded. And in my intercourse with
her I always felt there were two Lulies—one on the surface, a bright
laughing girl, with a warm sunny heart, whom I loved dearly, and who
I sometimes thought loved me; the other was a far more radiant being,
whose face was beneath the first Lulie’s, and whose shadow or likeness
she constantly wore, though never distinctly enough to be perfectly
recognized. And this last Lulie was the idol of my heart—she whom I
adored so unceasingly, and yet who I knew deep in my heart never loved
me.
I would not affect mystery with this duality; I simply wish to present
an idea of one of those faces we sometimes see—faces that, strive how
they will, by word and look, can never express all their meaning; faces
that, from their very secrecy, so to speak, possess a power we either
dread or love. Lulie’s power over me I loved; and loving, hoped one day
to attain to the love of her inner soul.
Mr. Cheyleigh possessed a beautiful residence on the Sound, about
eight miles from Wilmington, and Ned invited Frank and myself to spend
the vacation with him. What an Elysium it was for us! Horses, dogs
and boats at our command! Every nook of the Sound was explored in
our fishing, crabbing and shrimping excursions; every swamp and lake
invaded in our search for summer game. But of all our pleasures the
greatest was to go over to the beach and take the surf. The delicate
votaries of fashion at the watering places know nothing of its real
luxury. Swathed in flannel and buoyed by ropes they strangle through
the tortures of a dip, and declare it charming. But to go beyond the
reach of _lorgnettes_, to disrobe entirely without fear of the sun’s
tanning, to trip lightly over the cool moist sand, and plunge into the
great tossing ocean, is to really enjoy the thing.
But now we are in; we find our depth, and wait for the wave. Ah, here
it comes! A great green fellow, crumbling towards the shore; a smooth,
glassy valley before it, and its white crest curling proudly in its
power. “Here it is! how it rustles! turn your backs! now spring!” and
the next instant, swept from our feet, we ride the great monster to
land, where he throws us high upon the sand, and sinks back to his
watery domain, with a growl for our intrusion.
With our numerous sports time passed all the more rapidly, and we were
preparing to return home. The evening previous to the day appointed
was a dark and threatening one. A heavy blue bank lay in the west, and
though the sun, as he passed beyond it, had thrown across it a bright
golden fringe, it refused to be propitiated, and sullenly waited till
he had disappeared, when it loomed blackly up, while the constant
quivering of the lightning, and the distant, heavy jarring of the
thunder told that a storm of no ordinary magnitude was brewing. After
tea Mr. Cheyleigh went out on the back piazza to smoke, while we boys
took our seats on the steps, and in subdued tones told tales of the
awful effects of lightning, and its affinity for isolated houses like
Mr. Cheyleigh’s. The cloud had now reached half way up the heavens,
and its dark line was distinctly marked on the blue of the sky. A few
brave little stars were twinkling defiantly in front of it, though the
bright evening star had long since sunk behind its folds. It grew very
dark, so that all objects in the yard were invisible, save when for an
instant illuminated by the greenish flickering glare of the lightning.
We at length caught the dull roar of the distant wind, while the leaves
gave their premonitory rustle, as a poor frightened little zephyr fled
to them for refuge. We heard the tap of Mr. Cheyleigh’s pipe, and saw
the fiery sparks fall from the railing and glow a moment or two amidst
the grass, then a few great drops of rain pattered down on the steps,
and we rose and entered the house. Windows were pulled down, shutters
were fastened, and doors were closed. Another shake among the trees,
and then came the shedding, gushing sound of the rain as it fell in
torrents, while the wind in all its fury burst upon us. The house
cracked, the windows shook, and the corners howled in the terrific
blast, while the window sashes clashed back and forth in their slides,
as if the storm would burst in the very panes. The lightning showed
through the blinds even with the lamps lighted, as if it was broad
day out doors, every other second, while the thunders filled up the
intervals of darkness with repeated peals, each of which seemed vieing
with its predecessor in stunning, deafening sounds.
We all gathered around the lamp stands in silence, and looked into each
other’s faces, with eyes wide open from apprehension. Mrs. Cheyleigh
had two of the smaller children in her lap, their heads buried in her
bosom, and her head resting down on theirs, to keep from seeing the
lightning. Mr. Cheyleigh was trying to read, but at every severe peal
of thunder would take down the paper and press his thumb and forefinger
over his eyes, as if muttering a prayer to himself. The dining room
maids were standing back against the wall, their hands folded under
their white aprons, and their heads leaning together as they whispered
and snickered about their sable beaux. At length Mrs. Cheyleigh spoke,
her voice having a very solemn and liturgical tone:
“Mr. Cheyleigh, isn’t this an awful storm?”
As if in applause of her question, a burst of thunder, louder than any
before, rolled across the sky, and fell off somewhere in the distance
with a terrible thump and a long deep growl.
“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Cheyleigh, taking his fingers from his eyes to
tear off a corner of his newspaper and put in his mouth; “I have not
known so strong a blow as this for several years.”
“I trust,” said Mrs. Cheyleigh, raising her head from the children,
with the prints of their heads on her cheeks, “that there is nothing
like this to-night at the Springs, where Gertrude and Ella are.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” said Mr. Cheyleigh smiling a little, “this storm
only extends a few miles along our coast. I fear for the vessels,
though, if there should be any in reach of this wind.”
“Oh, ‘twould be frightful, indeed, to be on the water such a night
as this. I hope every ship is safe in some harbor,” answered Mrs.
Cheyleigh, laying her hands on the little heads in her lap, as if they
were two little ships, and her arms were their harbor. Aye, they were!
Live how or where we may, life’s ocean has no surer shelter from its
storms than a mother’s arms; and if early in our voyage this harbor is
closed up by the tomb rocks, we only beat about as best we may till we
anchor in the vail!
Mr. Cheyleigh now rose, and going to the window, shaded his eyes with
the palms of his hand, while he gazed out into the darkness. Turning
into the light again, he said:
“I think the danger of the storm is over now, only the rain is falling.
As amusements are out of the question I think the children had better
go to bed.”
Mrs. Cheyleigh accordingly raised the two little ones from her lap,
they getting up with their hair over their eyes, which they kept half
shut, as if afraid of another blinding flash of lightning. As they left
the room with their attendant, we sat down to the table and made a
hasty supper, and after that took our lamps and retired.
In our rooms we undressed, and laying down commenced to talk over the
subject of lost ships and rescues. The thunder had moved so far off
as to be scarcely audible, though the pale reflected lightning still
flickered through the shutters. The wind was still very strong, and
drove the heavy rain drops with sharp clicks upon the window panes,
as if a million little storm sprites were trying to kick the glass in
with their tiny feet. As we lay there, our imaginations filled with the
horrors of the sea, we performed enough feats in fancy to have made
bankrupt all the humane societies by our demands for medals.
We saved from watery graves enough fair women to set up a larger colony
of Bacchæ than Euripides ever sung, or Tennyson jailed in his Womans’
Rights College. We brought off enough treasure in our lifeboat to give
every ass in the nation a pair of gold ears, which, in the present
condition of affairs, would require more of the precious metal than a
Briarean Midas could ever touch into existence with all his hands.
After saving several fleets larger than the Armada we at length got to
sleep. Once I awoke under the impression that I heard a cannon shot,
and listening I heard three distinct booms, at intervals of a minute or
two; but as the lightning was still glimmering I concluded it was the
thunder, and, getting a little closer to Ned, dropped to sleep again.
When we went down next morning we found that the storm had left strong
marks of its violence everywhere. The yard was washed into gullies
and trenches, and strewed with the limbs and leaves of the trees and
bunches of mistletoe. One side of the garden paling was blown down, and
the rose bushes and shrubbery torn and bent. Down at the stables the
water was standing in great yellow pools, in which were floating the
shingles and pieces of board torn from the roofs around. The horses and
mules were all wet on their backs and manes, where the rain had beat
through after the shingles were loosened. The cattle were all drenched,
and looked as melancholy, as they stood around the fences with their
sleek dripping coats, as if they had been bereaved. The chickens, as
well as the dogs, had their tails drooping down instead of erect, a
sure sign that they were out of spirits, and nothing in sight seemed to
have enjoyed the storm except an old black and white Muscovite drake,
who was washing his muddy feathers in a muddy puddle of water near the
gate, fluttering his wings, bobbing his head, and whispering, in the
greatest glee, to his lady, who was waddling around the edge, followed
by a little brood as yellow as if just hatched from the famous golden
eggs.
The corn, as far as we could see, was lapped and twisted in the rows,
while the rice was lying flat as before a sickle. The sky was still
overcast, and great shaggy masses of cloud were drifting rapidly
southward, as if ashamed of the havoc they had made. Here and there
for an instant shone little patches of blue sky, which kept coming and
going all the morning, increasing each time in size, till at noon the
sun shone brightly out, jeweling the foliage, gilding the landscape,
and even condescending to paint a tiny spectrum on each glistening
blade of grass.
After dinner Ned proposed that we go over to the beach, and see the
effect of the storm there. As it took us some time to get our boat
ready, and the wind was against us, we did not get to the beach till
late in the evening. The clouds had all been bleached by the sun to
fleecy whiteness, and now, taking their gorgeous orange vestures from
the wardrobe of the West, they ranged themselves like Titanic sentries
to guard their monarch’s couch.
Far away toward their domain stretched a verdant panorama of washed and
fresh looking forests, white, nestling cottages and the wimpling sheen
of the Sound. We turned to the grand old ocean, who would not be so
easily appeased. The scowl of his fury still lingered on his face, and
he lashed the shore in sullen though subsiding rage. The parting sun
threw over his angry countenance a shimmering veil of gold, but could
not hide the frown. Yet ‘twas wondrous pleasing to behold the myriads
of sunlit bubbles, sparkling with rainbow helmets, mount their billow
steeds, and, in a long, regular line, come charging to the shore. As
fast as one squadron was dashed upon the immovable sand, that lay like
a great yellow dragon before them, another succeeded; and, like the
victims of Peter the Hermit’s and Bernard’s fanaticism, these millions
of little crusaders were wasted on a fitting type of the desolate East.
After contemplating the scene for some time, we began to search up and
down the beach for signs of wreck or objects tossed ashore. Something
far down the beach caught our eye, and we all hastened toward it,
wondering what it could be. There was a dark object, whose shape we
could not make out, and near it a bright scarlet something. Curiosity
lent wings, and we flew over the distance. Frank Paning was rather
fleeter than Ned or myself, and outran us by many yards. We saw him,
as he reached the objects, raise both hands and turn towards us with a
face full of horror. In a moment we were at his side.
Before us, on the sand, lay two figures still and cold. One was the
form of a little girl, lashed to what appeared to be the door of a
ship’s cabin. She was bound closely to it with ropes, and was lying
with her bloodless cheek pressed down upon the rough panels. Her
garments seemed to be of very fine material and make, though now
drenched with sea water; over her shoulders was clinging a scarlet cape
or mantle, which was the red spot that had attracted our notice. At her
side was strapped a curiously carved steel box, now heavily oxidized by
the salt sea.
The door and its human freight had been cast high up on the shore; but,
tied by one wrist to the knob of the door, lower towards the water,
stretched the figure of a man. He was lying on his face, which was so
much sunk in the yielding sand that we could only observe his hair,
which was long and gray. His form was tall and large, and clad in a
black suit of clothes; around his waist was strapped a broad belt of
leather, to which, if anything was attached, we could not see it, as
the ends must have been beneath him. Ever and anon a wave would break
on the shore, and, as if mocking its victims, come rustling up the
sand, covering the half buried feet, floating the clinging clothes, on
and up, till it lifted and waved like moss the dank gray hair, then
sink, sighing, back to the sea; while he lay there, so heedless of
all, stretching the cord-bound hand, with its blue, water-shrivelled
fingers, appealingly yet protectingly, toward the child on the door.
We gazed long, with all the silence of horror, at the sad spectacle,
and with agitated looks at each other. I at length spoke:
“Boys, what must we do? They ought to know of this at Mr. Cheyleigh’s.”
“Yes, indeed, they ought,” said Ned. “Let’s go over and get the negroes
and the big boat, and carry both bodies home.”
“Do you reckon they are both dead?” whispered Frank.
“They must be,” returned Ned, looking at them both attentively. “The
man is, I am sure; for, if not dead before, the water washing so
constantly over him since he has lain here would have drowned him.”
“Let’s see, any way,” said I; and we all three stooped to lift the
man first. Not without a shudder did we touch the cold, clammy flesh,
as we strove to drag him up from the water’s edge. His weight was too
great for us, clogged as he was with sand and water, and we could only
move him up the bank a foot or two, and turn him over on his back.
We cleaned the sand as well as we could from his mouth, nostrils and
eyes—the faded blue balls of the last being so thickly covered with
the fine, sharp grains that we had to wipe them very hard with our
handkerchiefs—at least Ned and I did; Frank vowed he wasn’t going to
put his handkerchief in a dead man’s eyes, just to get the grits out.
We then left the man and tried the girl with better success. We cut the
cords that held her to the door, and lifted her up; Ned supporting her
head as tenderly as a woman. Never had I dreamed of such beauty! Her
face was as colorless as marble, but showed more perfectly for that
its exquisite outline; her temples were chased with a network of blue
veins that were brought out more distinctly by the cold water she had
been in so long. Her eyes were closed, but the lids atoned by their
rose-leaf texture and long black fringe. Her mouth was partially open,
as if gasping, but made up for this slight disfigurement by disclosing
a set of the clearest, smoothest teeth. But, though each separate
feature was beautiful, there was a look about them when combined
that baffles all description. Perhaps her beauty was enhanced by her
romantic surroundings; but I could not help thinking, as she lay there
so passive and still, that the angel who had borne her soul away had
been trying on the faces of heaven, to see which would suit her best,
and had forgotten to take off his fairest.
As we looked on in silent admiration, Ned placed his hand upon her
forehead, and exclaimed with great animation:
“Look here, John! her flesh does not feel like the other’s—it is cold,
but not so clammy.”
A touch confirmed his remark; for while her hands and forehead were icy
cold, there was not that peculiar deathlike clamminess or inelasticity
about them that tells so infallibly that the soul has departed, and we
drew hope from this circumstance that she might yet live. We ran at
the next wave and caught our hats full of water, which we dashed into
her face, without stopping to reflect that she had perhaps had enough
of water for the present. We loosened her clothing as delicately as
possible, and began chafing her hands and arms. Our anxiety to revive
her made us almost drown her again with our hats of water, and in our
eagerness we rubbed the tender flesh almost raw on her hands and arms.
In the midst of our efforts Ned, who was supporting her, exclaimed:
“Look! look! she drew her breath.”
We gathered excitedly around and watched her closely, but her face was
still marble—no sign of life in its pale outlines! After we had gazed
a long while in the most intense suspense, a quick spasmodic gasp came
through her parted lips, and a quiver played over her eyelids.
What a moment for our heroism! We felt that we were saving from the
monster sea a fairer being than ever Palamon and Arcite tilted for.
Beowulf, conquering the hideous Grendel, felt no more chivalric pride
than did we, as our lovely waif lay with fitful breathings in our arms.
At length her respiration became more regular, and her eyes slowly
unclosed. “Eyes” is a meagre word for the magnificent black orbs
turned so timidly and wonderingly upon us; they probably served the
commonplace purpose of vision, but the pleading eloquence of their
look, and the emotions of fear and amazement which were almost audible
in her gaze, declared their primary object to be expression.
Turning them restlessly from one to another of us, and failing to
recognize any one, she closed them, as if in pain. Ned now ventured to
speak, though we were almost afraid he would scare the soul away again
that had been so hardly persuaded to return.
“Are you suffering now? Don’t be alarmed, we are all friends.”
Again she opened her eyes, looked wildly at him, then suddenly seemed
to come to consciousness. With a frantic look of horror she cried
out: “_Oh, padre! padre! oh donde està mi padre!_” and other frantic
sentences, in a language unknown to us, and strove to rise to her feet.
Ned and I assisted her, and she stood up on the sand. It was most
unfortunate that she did so; for, as she gained her feet, her eyes
fell on the corpse near the water, and, with a soul-piercing shriek,
she sank to the earth, and all our efforts to revive her again were
unavailing. As it had now grown quite dark we intended to hurry across
the sound and tell Mr. Cheyleigh. Our sail boat being very small, it
was thought best to leave one of us with the body, and to take the
little girl in the boat over to the house. As it was not a pleasant
solitude by any means, we drew pebbles to see who should remain, and it
fell to my lot. Accordingly, Ned and Frank took up their fair burden,
and promising me to make all the possible haste they could, went slowly
up the banks to their boat. I saw them lay their charge down gently,
hoist the sail and glide away in the darkness, and I was alone with
the dead. The sun had long since gone down, and the red tinge of the
sky was paling into the dusky gray of twilight. Far up and down the
beach the dreary waste of waters grew drearier in the deepening shades,
and the darkness fell so fast that when I looked up at the sky for a
moment, and then turned to the sea, an hour seemed to have elapsed
when measured by the increase of gloom. The sail of Ned’s boat at last
disappeared behind a point of land, and there was nothing for me to
watch but the dead man’s face and the moaning, tossing waters. It was
now too dark to distinguish his features; there was only the ghastly
white shape of his face, that, as I gazed so long upon it, seemed to
make hideous grimaces at me—now sneering at my timidity, now opening
its faded eyes to glare at me for having sent the little girl away; now
shutting one eye and opening the other, sometimes reversing the face,
putting the eyes in the chin and the mouth in the forehead; sometimes
disappearing entirely, then suddenly coming back as white as ever. I
would have fled up the beach, but I was afraid the corpse would spring
up and run after me. And the whole scene was full of death! The stars
seemed dead men’s eyes, the sob of each wave was a dying groan, the
white foam caps were dying faces, struggling for life, and a white
gull, flying across the sky, was a cloth from the face of a corpse.
Suddenly a light came over the waters, and I looked up to find that the
moon, at its full, was raising its great yellow disc from the waves.
As if in kindly sympathy with me, the light came dancing over the
burnished sea, but ceased its gambols at the shore, and threw its wan
radiance over the dead face.
With the light I grew bolder, and rose and stood by the corpse, to
see if it had moved. But it was lying as we had placed it, without a
quiver in the face; and again I sat down upon the sand. Looking over
the sound I saw Mr. Cheyleigh’s boat coming, and the rapid flash of the
dripping oars told that it was speeding well. Inexpressibly relieved, I
went down to the landing and stood there, as unconcerned as if I had
been pleasantly entertained on the beach. The rigging rattled as the
sails came down, the keel grated on the sand, and Mr. Cheyleigh, Ned
and Frank, and four stout negroes got out and went to the body. They
wrapped it in blankets, laid it in the bottom of the boat, and with a
stiff breeze and strong oars we soon glided under the shadow of Mr.
Cheyleigh’s boat house. Ned, Frank and I sprang out and ran ahead to
see about the little girl.
Mrs. Cheyleigh was up in her chamber with her, and we could see only
two or three excited negroes, who could tell nothing. We soon heard the
negro men coming up the steps with their loaded, faltering tread, and
we followed them into the back parlor, where, under Mr. Cheyleigh’s
direction, they deposited their burden, smoothed the blankets over him,
and marched out, picking up their hats from the corners of the doors,
where they had thrown them as they came into the “gretouse.”
Mr. Cheyleigh then went up stairs to aid Mrs. Cheyleigh while we turned
into the dining room, where they were just bringing in supper.
“I wonder what will be done with her if Mrs. Cheyleigh succeeds in
bringing her to?” said Frank, as we took our seats near the open window.
This was something we had not thought of, and we were somewhat startled
by the query; as we considered her ours by right of discovery, and her
disposal, consequently, a matter of importance to each of us.
“I suppose,” continued Frank, “she’ll have to go to the Orphan Asylum.”
I repudiated the idea with indignation.
“Never!” I said warmly; “if her friends do not come forward and claim
her, I will get father to adopt her, as he has no other children beside
me.”
“Oh! perhaps you will,” said Frank, with something of a sneer in his
tone; “any way I claim an interest in her, and will have her for my
sweetheart.”
“You had better first learn whether she is alive or not,” said Ned,
reprovingly.
The waiting maid, Tildy, here interrupted us:
“Marse Ned, supper’s ready; you reckon your mar’s gwine to come down?”
“She don’t want none, nohow,” said Winny, another maid, coming into the
room. “I jes come outen her room and she was a rubbing the little gal
with brandy and mustard.”
Tildy again put in, half to Winny and half to us:
“I wonder how come dey never stood de man on his head to let de water
run outen his mouth?”
“Sheer! what you know ‘bout it, gal?” rejoined Winny, giving her a push
on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “I tell you what, doe Tildy,
dey ain’t no poor bokra; de little gal had on de finest underclose
I ever see, mo’ lace and stuff all round ’em; and when mistis was
undressing her she taken off her neck er big gold chain with er locket
hung to it. I taken it up and looked at it, and it’s got a whole heap
er sets in it, dat shines wors’n mistis’s breastpin.”
Mr. Cheyleigh here entered the room and said:
“Winny! your mistress wants a cup of hot tea and some toast carried up
to her immediately. Come to the table, boys, Mrs. Cheyleigh will not be
down to-night.”
We sat down to the table, but could not eat for eager questions. Mr.
C. informed us that, after much rubbing and many stimulants, the
little girl had become conscious, and had been able to speak. She had
addressed Mrs. C. at first in Spanish, but, on hearing her give some
order to the servants, inquired if Mrs. C. spoke English, and learning
that she did, used our language quite fluently. Mrs. C. had gotten
her to bed and was trying to keep her from talking. She had, by a few
questions, learned that the little girl was a Cuban; that her name was
Carlotta Lola Rurlestone, and that she was lost from a ship the night
before. She was constantly asking for her father, and Mrs. Cheyleigh
had thought it best not to tell her of his death, but had evaded her
queries as best she could. She was under the influence of an opiate
now, and Mrs. C. wanted the house kept quiet.
After supper we had food enough for conversation till a late hour, when
we retired only to dream of shipwrecks, and corpses, and half drowned
girls.
At the breakfast table the following morning we were glad to meet Mrs.
Cheyleigh, who was able to give us still more news about our little
protégé. She told us she seemed much better, though feeble; that
she recollected the scene now, and was weeping violently about her
father’s death; that her mother had been dead several years; that her
father was a native of New Orleans, and that he and she had started to
this country to spend the summer, as was their custom; that they had
stormy weather for several days, and been driven somewhat from their
course, and when the violent storm came on it was said that the ship
was sinking; that her father had lashed her to a cabin door he had
wrenched off, and, that he might not get separated from her, tied his
wrist to its knob. He threw her into the water and tried to follow, but
was jerked over by the weight of the door, and fell, striking his head
violently against it. He seemed to be stunned, as he made no motion
afterwards, but drifted about with the door, his face down in the water
and his whole body sometimes out of sight. That the ship was soon blown
off and out of sight, and that her agony was so great, as she saw her
father drowning, and could not move to help him, that she had become
insensible, and had known nothing more till she was in Mrs. Cheyleigh’s
room, though she remembered faintly seeing strange faces around her as
in a dream.
“She is in constant distress about her father,” continued Mrs. C., “but
I hope that, with proper care and attention, she will recover. Mr.
Cheyleigh has sent to town for Dr. Mayland, and also for the Coroner,
who will hold his inquest as soon as possible.”
Very soon after breakfast the Coroner arrived, and his jurymen began to
drop in one by one.
We went out to the back piazza, where they were assembling, and walked
among the crowd, listening to a confused jargon of questions in regard
to the crops, wonderful tales of the ravages of the late storm, and
surmises as to the drowned stranger, and the probable verdict that
would be rendered.
The Coroner was a middle aged man, of great self-importance, who
evidently thought an inquest a work of as great moment as a national
negotiation. He took but little interest in the conversation of the
others present, though he occasionally addressed some words to Mr.
Cheyleigh, who was sitting near him. After considerable delay, and the
assemblage of a large crowd of people, he pulled out his great fat
silver watch, and said slowly:
“Well, I reckon we had as well begin. The morning is getting on
smartly. Where is the body, Mr. Cheyleigh?”
Mr. Cheyleigh led the way, the Coroner and his jury following in single
file till they reached the parlor. They crowded round the table to get
a view of the corpse, all leaning forward, and holding their hats and
hands behind them, as if they were tied there. The tall men looked on,
while those small in stature moved round and round, vainly endeavoring
to find a gap in the crowd to peep through.
The usual form of selecting and empanelling the jury was gone through
with, and the Coroner commenced to examine the witnesses. Mr. Cheyleigh
was first sworn.
“Mr. Cheyleigh,” said the Coroner, walking his chair backward on the
two hind legs a step or two, to gaze better at Mr. Cheyleigh through a
pair of very broad rimmed silver specs, “will you please to state all
you know about the finding of this body.”
Mr. Cheyleigh came forward very gravely, and proceeded to relate his
knowledge of the affair with a declamatory style, and with such long
words that I did not know whether he meant to confuse the Coroner by
using language above his two-syllable comprehension, or was acting
under the common impulse of human nature to display proficiency in any
department which has not been attained by those listening.
“The first information,” he began, with a salutatory wave of his hand,
“which I received of the discovery of the bodies was imparted to me by
my son and his friend. Immediately on receipt of this intelligence I
took the large boat, and with some of my negroes we rapidly made the
transit of the Sound. Their report of the melancholy catastrophe was
unhappily confirmed, for in close proximity to the water’s edge lay
this body. Edward and Frank brought the little girl over with them when
they came for me, and Mrs. Cheyleigh has succeeded in resuscitating
her. The man had apparently been inanimate for a period of some length,
as his flesh had undergone considerable contraction from contact with
the water—at least was contracted around the bones and features; the
body proper was very much distended. He had been tied by one hand to
the door of a ship’s cabin, though the boys had cut the cord. I placed
the body in the boat, and brought it where you now see it.”
The Coroner moved his head up and down, slowly at first, then faster
and in shorter spaces, till it came to rest, like a spring pendulum, as
who should say:
“Just as I expected; all just as I expected;” and then, with a look of
legal sagacity that would have adorned an Ellenborough, asked:
“Did you bring the door over with you?”
“I deemed that altogether unnecessary, but I took from the man’s waist
a pouch containing some money and one or two checks for large amounts
on New York houses. I also found a very fine watch and chain; the
upper lid of the watch bears a bouquet of diamonds and the initials H.
V. R. Here is the watch and pouch.”
He passed them to the Coroner, who examined every part as minutely as
if he were identifying stolen property, and having satisfied himself
that the articles did not belong to him, passed them on to the others,
who each examined them in the same critical way.
“What, then, Mr. Cheyleigh,” resumed the Coroner, after they had all
finished their tedious examination of the articles, and returned them
to Mr. C., “do you think was the cause of his death?”
“Strangulation, sir, from the influx of water into the larynx, and the
consequent exclusion of air.”
“Exactly—exactly, Mr. Cheyleigh; that will do, sir. Did you say your
son found the bodies?”
“He and two of his friends.”
“We can examine him, then?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Ned was a little confused as he came forward, and kept passing his
hand nervously over his tumbled hair. The Coroner assumed a mild,
patronizing air, and said:
“Well, my son, what can you tell us of this affair?” Ned swallowed once
or twice, and began:
“After the storm, John Smith, Frank Paning and myself thought we would
go over to the banks and take a view of the ocean. When we got over the
sky was fair, but the——”
“Never mind about the sky, my son,” interrupts the Coroner, “just tell
what you know about the dead man.”
“Well,” resumed Ned, with a long breath, and another swallow, “John
Smith saw them first, and we all ran to them and tried to move the man,
but found him rather heavy, we then cut the cords, and lifted up the
little girl——”
“Stop! stop! don’t tell about the girl, let us hear about the man.”
“I don’t know anything particular about him, except that he was dead.”
“How was he lying when you found him?”
“His feet were in the water and his face was in the sand. One arm was
doubled under him so, and the other—the one tied to the door knob—was
stretched out so.”
Ned here attempted to assume a descriptive attitude.
“Did the knot appear to have been tied by himself or somebody else?”
“It was a slip knot, and could have been fastened by himself.”
“Did he lie as if the water had washed him up, or somebody had placed
him there?”
“I think he was thrown up by the waves, sir.”
“You didn’t see any tracks or boat marks about?”
“No, sir.”
“That will do. I don’t think it is worth while to examine anymore
witnesses. Gentlemen, you can make up your verdict.”
We accordingly left the room, while twelve good citizens endeavored
most earnestly to ascertain what they already knew—the manner of the
dead man’s death.
When we got out we found Horace waiting for Frank and myself with the
carriage and horses.
We packed up our valises, made Ned promise to come to see us, left a
kiss for our little foundling, and were soon rolling towards home.
Father and mother were as much interested in my news as I could have
desired, and as I dwelt upon the beauty of the little girl and her
lonely condition, I saw by the tear in mother’s eye, and the serious
shade on father’s face, that I had made an impression. After recounting
all in as vivid terms as I could command, I begged father to adopt
her, offering as arguments many facts which he perhaps knew as well as
I: that he was able to do it; that she would not be a great expense;
that she would be company for mother when I was away; that I wanted a
sister just like her, and would love and care for her tenderly, and
wound up by declaring I would rather starve than have her sent to the
Orphan Asylum.
“Well, well, don’t be so impatient, my son,” said father, relapsing
into a smile, “even if I were inclined to adopt your suggestion there
are many preliminaries to be arranged. I must see Cheyleigh, as she is
now under his charge, and I must write to her friends in Cuba, where
you say she came from. Then, perhaps, she may not be willing to come
and live with us. You will have to restrain your eagerness till your
mother and I consult about what is best to be done.”
I was obliged to rest content with this. I went down town in the
afternoon and recited to every acquaintance I met our wonderful
adventure. The sun was nearly down when I was interrupted in the midst
of my narrative by a servant, who came to tell me that there was a lady
at home who wished to see me. I wound up my story and hurried home,
wondering who it could be. To my utter surprise and pleasure I found
Lulie Mayland in the sitting room, looking prettier and brighter than
ever. She smiled delightfully when I pressed her hand and said, with a
little blush:
“It’s strange, isn’t it, for a lady to call on a gentleman? but you
must excuse me now. Pa has just returned from the Sound and has been
telling me about the little girl you found. My curiosity was so excited
I determined to come to see you and learn all about it, as you would
not call and tell me. Promise me you won’t think strange of it.”
“Oh, Lulie, the bare idea of such formality between old friends!” I
said, taking a seat near her.
“Well, we will not deem it a breach of form for the sake of old times.”
“What a pity it is,” said I, half musing, “that people grow older and
colder in their natures. We were so happy as children. Do you remember
the day in the nursery, long ago?”
“Yes, I believe I do; but tell me about your Sound adventure now, I am
all impatience to hear that.”
I detailed minutely every circumstance connected with the affair, and
dwelt particularly upon the little girl’s superb beauty, hoping thereby
to raise a spark of envy in Lulie’s heart, for I was piqued at her only
believing to remember about the nursery scene. As I pictured to her
the wavy black hair, the gazelle like eyes and chiselled features of
Carlotta, I thought I detected a glance towards the opposite mirrors,
where her own tumbled curls and merry blue eyes were reflected. When I
had concluded she sat for some time in thought, then softly said:
“No father—no mother—no home!”
I knew then that envy found no room in a heart so full of pity and love.
“What is to be done with her?” she said, at length.
“I don’t know; I am trying to get father to adopt her, and I think he
is half inclined to do so.”
“Oh, that would be splendid,” she said, brightening at the thought; “I
could see her so often, and we would be such dear friends. Do beg Col.
Smith to bring her here.”
“You may rest assured I will do my utmost, if it is only to get you
over here sometimes, as you now have to make formal explanations for a
single visit.”
“Indeed, I expect you have other motives for your petition. Somebody’s
heart, perhaps, aids somebody’s lips in begging.”
“Never!” I said, with great emphasis; “she is truly lovely, but there
is only one heart in the world I care to——”
“I am very much obliged to you, Johnnie, for your narration,” she
said, rising to go, “it has interested me very much.”
“The obligation is mine,” I said, with a profound bow, “for your kind
attention. ‘Twas really a pleasure to talk with such a listener.”
I escorted her home, and sat with her some time on the stoop, and felt
more than ever that I was completely her slave. She seemed to have
thrown around me an inflexible chain, one which I could not bend to get
nearer her heart, and one which I could not break to get away. Every
word of her conversation was so chosen that, while it kept alive my
hopes, it did not satisfy them, and yet she skilfully permitted no word
of love making to pass between us; all was carried on by innuendo; and,
when I bade her good evening, I felt convinced that she did not love
me, but dreaded to wound me by the disclosure.