Belford's Magazine, Vol. II, No. 3, February 1889

"Whalers have so few chances to write home."

"He has been gone a great while, hasn't he?"

"It seems so to me, I confess. And three years really is a long time, isn't it?"

"Dear me, yes. I wouldn't let Lem go away from me that way. Who knows but what he might marry somebody else while he was gone? Have you never been afraid that Dorn would?"

"Oh, no, Ruth. Never. He loves me too well for that, I know."

"And you felt just as sure of that when you did not hear from him for nearly two years?"

"Yes," replied Mary, with a little hesitation, however: "for I know the girl whose lover goes a-whaling must have patience; and I have heard Uncle Thatcher tell a good deal about the countries to which the whalers go, and I hardly think – "

"That he would be likely to meet anybody there who would be able to cut you out. Well, there's some comfort in that reflection, anyway. But the letter! What does he say for himself?"

"That he is coming home, Ruth; coming home at last. He is on the way now. A fast sailing packet-ship brought the letter on ahead, and he supposed that he would arrive a couple of weeks after I received it."

"And when he comes you'll get married?"

"I – hope so," replied Mary, in a little lower tone and with tears gathering in her eyes. "But you know we are poor; and besides, Uncle Thatcher – "

"That, for Uncle Thatcher," exclaimed little Ruth, snapping her fingers defiantly. "What has he to say about whom you shall marry? That is a matter which concerns nobody but you and Dorn."

"My mother, when she was dying in the big city, leaving me all alone, put me in his charge, you know."

"Well, what of it? It would be as much as I'd do to let my father and mother interfere with my marrying any nice young man I liked, and I don't believe parents can transfer that right – if it is a right – to anybody. Uncle Thatcher, indeed!" she ejaculated scornfully, with a toss of her little resolute round head. "What does he want you to do, anyway? To live and die an old maid, to please him?"

"No, I have been ashamed to tell anybody heretofore – even you, Ruth – but he wants me to marry Cousin Silas."

"That ugly, good-for-nothing cub of his?"

"Yes; Silas asked me to once, and when I refused him, said that I was only a pauper living on his father's charity, and threatened to tell such stories about me that nobody else would have me. He hurt and frightened me terribly, and Dorn found me in the woods crying about it. In the fullness of my heart I told him all. I couldn't keep it to myself when he asked me why I cried. And do you know what he did? He went right off and gave Silas such an awful pounding that he was laid up for two weeks."

"Good! I like Dorn Hackett better than I ever did before. That's just what I should expect of Lem in such a case."

"That was the time Silas was reported to be so sick, just before Dorn went away. He never dared to talk about me as he said he would, I guess, but as soon as he got well went right off to New York. Uncle Thatcher blamed Dorn for hurting Silas, and has hated the thought of him ever since. And oh, Ruth! you don't know what I've had to suffer from Aunt Thatcher!"

"Now you just take my advice and put your back right up at her; and as soon as Dorn comes home, you two go right off and get married, and if Uncle Thatcher tries to interfere, have Dorn pound him, too – worse than he did Silas."

Mary smiled through her tears and replied: "Dorn says he has done well and talks about buying a share in a coasting schooner – and a house – and – furniture – and I think he said something about getting married right away."

In sympathetic exuberance of joy the two girls embraced and kissed each other, Ruth exclaiming:

"And we'll get married on the same day, won't we? And in spite of Uncle Thatcher, or anybody else, Mary Wallace will be Mrs. Dorman Hackett, and Ruth Lenox will be Mrs. Lemuel Pawlett. But I wish Lem's name didn't rhyme with 'pullet' and 'gullet.'"

The two charming young friends were so busy with their theme that not until they were close before him, in the little bridle path through which they wandered, did they notice the presence of a third person: a smoothly-shaven, little, elderly gentleman, primly dressed in black and wearing a band of crape upon his tall silk hat. He was upon horseback, sitting silent and motionless. He had seen the girls slowly strolling toward him, waited until they almost collided with his horse's nose and had executed a little concerted scream of surprise, and then addressed them in a slow, measured and precise manner, saying:

"I am endeavoring to find the residence, or residences, of two persons known as Peter and Jacob Van Deust, supposed to be brothers, who, according to my present information and belief, reside somewhere in this vicinity. Can either of you young ladies direct me definitely upon my way, and if able, will you be so kind as to do so?"

"Follow the path you are on," answered Ruth, "until you enter the main road; turn to your right about a quarter of a mile, then go up a lane that you will see on your left – the first that has an elm tree on each side of its entrance – and it will lead you straight up to the Van Deust homestead."

"I am very much obliged to you for your apparent courtesy and the seeming accuracy of the details of your information," responded the little gentleman, with grave deliberation, bending almost to the horse's mane as he spoke. Then straightening himself, and shaking the reins, he urged his steed into a gentle trot and soon disappeared in the gathering evening shades at a bend of the path.

"'Supposed to be brothers' – indeed!" exclaimed Ruth, when he was out of sight. "I'm sure their faces will afford him sufficient 'information and belief' on that score when he sees them."

III.

A GOLDEN RAIN

The Van Deust brothers sat smoking their pipes in the twilight on the wide porch of the old homestead overlooking the sea.

"I met Thatcher to-day when I was over at the village," said the younger brother, Jacob, "and he wanted to put the ten acre lot in corn on shares."

"Well," responded Peter, "I suppose he might as well have it as anybody. Somebody will have to work it. We are getting too old, Jacob, for ploughing and such-like hard toil ourselves, and a third will be all we'll want. What did you tell him?"

"I didn't give him any definite answer. I wish somebody else would offer to take the lot. I don't like that Thatcher."

"Why?"

"He is a hard, severe-looking old fellow, and I'm sure he treats that pretty niece of his badly."

"Oh! He does, eh? And now, Jacob, what the mischief is that to you? And what has it to do with his putting the ten-acre lot in corn on shares?"

"I've seen her crying."

"Bah! Girls are always crying. They like it. They do it for practice."

"Peter, you'd kick a boy for throwing stones at a wild bird, wouldn't you?"

"That's another matter. Birds are birds, and they're God's creatures; but women are the devil's creatures, and you'll never see Peter Van Deust trouble himself to lift his foot to a boy that throws stones at them. If the girl don't like the treatment her uncle gives her, I suppose she can find some fellow fool enough to marry her. 'Most any of 'em can do that."

"Peter, you shouldn't talk that way. A poor girl has her feelings about marrying where her liking goes, just as much as a man has."

"Yah!" snarled Peter, contemptuously, vigorously puffing his pipe, and for some minutes both men were silent. The younger of the two sank into a reverie, and awoke from it with a start, when his brother resumed the conversation, saying:

"I tell you what it is, Jacob. You were spooney on Mary Wallace's mother forty years ago, and I'm blessed if I think you have got over it yet. She threw you overboard then, not for a better looking man – for you were a fine, trim, sailor-built young fellow in those days – but for a richer one. She thought – "

"No, no, Peter! No, no! Don't say that! Don't say that! She didn't want to marry Wallace. I know she didn't. But her father and mother compelled her to it. She loved me best, I know she did. But you are right in saying I haven't got over it, Peter. I never shall. I'll love her just the same still, if I meet her in heaven. And when I see Mary's sweet young face, the love that is in my heart for her mother's memory cries out like a voice from the grave of all my hopes and joys, and I can hardly keep from taking poor Lottie's child in my arms and weeping over her."

"Which, if you were to do, she would think you were crazy, and right she would be," commented Peter, snarlingly.

"Hello!" sounded shortly, in a sharp wiry voice, from the little lane at the back of the house.

Peter, rising from his bench and going to the end of the porch, replied with a sailor-like "Aye, aye, sir," to the hail of the stranger, who was none other than the little elderly gentleman already encountered by Ruth and Mary in the woods. Without dismounting, the visitor asked, in a slow and cautious manner,

"Am I justified in presuming that I am upon the premises of the parties known as Peter and Jacob Van Deust?"

"This is where we live," replied Peter, a little puzzled by the stranger's manner.

"Pardon me, sir, but your reply is not an answer to my question. Am I to understand that you are one of the said parties?"

"I'm Peter, and this is Jacob," responded the elder brother, pointing with the stem of his pipe at the younger. "But come alongside before you get off any more of that lingo."

Methodically and carefully the rider dismounted, fastened his nag to the fence, and pushing open the little gate, stepped upon the low porch-floor, where, after an elaborate bow to each of the brothers separately, he continued:

"Assuming your affirmation to be correct and capable of substantiation by documentary evidence, and believing that you are, as you represent yourselves – or, rather, as one of you has represented – Peter and Jacob Van Deust, permit me, gentlemen, to have the pleasure of offering you my congratulations."

So saying, he raised his tall hat with old-time courtesy, repeated his bows to the brothers severally, and replaced his beaver with such exactitude that not a hair of his nicely-brushed wig was disarranged.

"Congratulations upon what? Upon being Peter and Jacob Van Deust?" demanded Peter, who began to look upon his visitor as a probably harmless lunatic.

"Naturally, sir. For reasons which you shall presently apprehend. Have you, or have you had, sir, to your knowledge, an uncle named Dietrich Van Deust?"

"Yes. It was Uncle Dietrich who went away to the Indies when we were boys, wasn't it, Peter?" said the younger brother.

"Yes, and settled somewhere there; I forget where. Batavia, I think, was the name of the place; but I ain't sure, for it is an age since I heard from him."

"Your remembrance is correct, nevertheless, sir," responded the stranger. "It was in Batavia that he took up his residence, and in Batavia that he died, at an advanced age, an old bachelor, possessed of large wealth, as I have been given to understand; and I offer my congratulations to you, gentlemen, for the reason that you are his fortunate heirs to the extent of one hundred thousand dollars."

The mere mention of that stupendous sum, as it seemed to them, fairly, stunned the two simple-minded old men who received this intelligence.

"Oh, Peter! It can't be there's so much money," gasped Jacob.

"Let me turn it over in my mind. Take a seat, sir," said Peter, pushing forward a stool for the visitor, reseating himself on his bench and slowly rubbing his forehead. Jacob went out to put away the little gentleman's horse, and while he was gone Peter relighted his pipe and smoked in silence. When the younger brother returned, the visitor resumed the conversation.

"My name," said he, "is Pelatiah Holden, and my profession that of counsellor-at-law. Here is my card," presenting one to each of the Van Deusts, and then continuing: "Four months and fourteen days since, I received from the firm of Van Gulden & Dropp, of Amsterdam, Holland, information to the effect that a client of theirs named William Van Deust was joint heir in the estate of Dietrich Van Deust, deceased, of Batavia; and they desired me, in order to facilitate the partition of the estate, to discover two other heirs, nephews of the deceased Dietrich Van Deust, named respectively Peter and Jacob Van Deust, sons of Jan Van Deust.

"That was father's name," interpolated Jacob in an undertone.

"As I have been already informed, sir, and do not doubt your ability to establish by legal proof," replied Mr. Holden, bowing gravely to him and going on with his narration. "Since that time, until three weeks ago, I have been seeking you, and it has only been during four days past that I have been satisfied that your claim to be the sons of Jan Van Deust, and nephews of Dietrich – and consequently inheritors under the will of the latter – could be legally established. Hence the apparent delay. But you will perceive, gentlemen, from my explanation, that I have notified you of the gratifying fact of the bequest, at the earliest practicable and proper moment."

Peter nodded silently, not having yet completed, seemingly, the serious task of "turning it over in his mind." But Jacob effusively stammered:

"Oh, we were not in any hurry, sir."

The lawyer resumed, speaking with the deliberate precision of one who reads an indictment: "Under the terms of the will, you are to enjoy this inheritance jointly while you both live, and expend it all, if you please, but by mutual consent. And should any of it remain at the time of the demise of either of you, it must descend to the survivor, untrammelled by any right of bequest on the part of the first decedent. And no contract, bargain, agreement, stipulation, or understanding whatever between you, concerning its disposal shall be made, by which the one surviving may be bound, or influenced in its administration; and to the fact that he is in no wise so bound, the survivor must make oath when entering into sole possession, else the sum so remaining must lapse to residuary legatees belonging to a remote branch of your family in Holland. What your uncle's intentions may have been in framing his will in this unusual manner, I do not pretend to say; nor is it, indeed, my province to inquire; but the facts are – as I know from an attested copy of the will in my possession – as I have had the honor of presenting them to you. And now, gentlemen, permit me to renew my congratulations and express the hope that you may long be joint possessors of this handsome inheritance."

IV.

TRUE LOVE

"The winds are fair, the sky is bright,The sails are drawing free,And loud I sing, my heart is light,My loves returns to me.To the no'nothe east and the sou'sou' west,And every other way,He's sailed from the girl that loved him best,But he comes back to-day."Land ho!" "Land ho!""Land on the starboard bow!""Land ho!" "Land ho!"He's in the offing now.The nights were dark, the days were drear,When he was on the deep,Now night is gone, the day is clear,And I no more shall weep.To the no'nothe east and the sou'sou' west,And every other way,He's sailed from the girl that loves him best,But he comes back to-day."Land ho!" "Land ho!""Land on the starboard bow!""Land ho!" "Land ho!"He's in the offing now."

So sung pretty Mary Wallace, as, sitting at the foot of a little tree, her favorite haunt and old time trysting-place in the woods, she abandoned herself to happy anticipations of her lover's return. Each hour might bring him now. Her bonnet was thrown aside and her black curls rippled down loosely over her shoulders. Her head was thrown back into the palms of her hands interlocked behind it, and her beautiful face, thus upraised, beamed with innocent gladness. And she sang, as the birds sing, from sheer happiness.

"He's in the offing now," sang a full, rich, manly voice, joining hers in the last line of her song, and with a little inarticulate cry of surprise and joy she sprang to her feet, to be the next moment enfolded in the strong arms of her sailor lover, back from the sea.

Dorn Hackett was a fine-looking young fellow, of a size worthy of a woman's liking, with a handsome, expressive face, hazel eyes, brown hair, broad and well-balanced head, square shoulders, deep chest, and such powerful arms as might have served for the model of a Hercules.

"Why, darling, you are crying!" he exclaimed, as with gentle force he raised her face from his breast and looked into her eyes.

"Ah, Dorn, they are happy tears. Do you not know that a woman weeps when her heart is full, just because it is full, whether it be filled with joy or sorrow?"

"Well, you shall never cry for sorrow again, if I can prevent it."

"Then you will never again leave me for so long a time. Oh, Dorn, it seemed as if you never would come back; and my heart ached so with longing for you. You don't know how unhappy I have been sometimes, while you were away."

"Why? Has that rascal Silas been making you any more trouble?" demanded the young man, his eyes blazing, and his hands involuntarily clenching in sudden anger.

"No, no, Dorn. He went away very soon after you did, and has not returned since."

"Then that uncle of yours, I suppose – "

"He has been no worse than before; rather better, perhaps as Silas was not here to be urged upon me and you were gone – none but I knew where – and, as he no doubt hoped, never to come back. But I begin to think, sir, that you didn't love me at all as much as you professed, or you would have felt something of the loneliness that I suffered and understand better why I was unhappy."

"Darling, I – "

"What a foolish girl I have been! Crying my eyes out for one who was no doubt very merry without me and well contented."

"Ah! You only say that to make me tell you again how much I love you, little Mollie. I've felt lonely enough, sometimes, it is true; but never enough to cry about it, I must confess; and I rather think the fellow is soft-headed as well as soft-hearted who pipes his eye and gets down in the mouth when he can say to himself that every day that passes, and every new exertion he makes, brings him nearer to the girl he loves. Why, instead of getting blue with thoughts of my far-away little Mollie, they gave me courage, and strength, and happiness. They warmed me as I lay along the yard furling sail in the icy gale; they made short the long hours of the night when I took my trick at the wheel; they nerved my arm when I struck for the life of a whale."

"I find myself beginning to believe again that you really did love me."

"Love you? Why, I couldn't live without loving you."

"And you never thought that while you were so long away I might learn to love somebody else?"

"No. Never even dreamed of such a thing," he replied simply.

"Ah! Now I know you loved me, for only perfect love, knowing but its own fullness and truth, is so trustful. And you were right, dear Dorn. I could love no one but you."

"Well, my pet," continued Dorn, after the natural ceremonial of due recognition of such a sweet avowal – the form and manner of which youthful readers may readily figure to themselves, and older ones perhaps find suggested by memory – "we'll not have much longer to wait now. Our cruise was a good one, and when the shares are figured up and paid off, I'll have a handsome little sum coming to me. Then an owner in New Haven, Mr. Merriwether, wants me to take immediate command of a schooner trading between that port and the West Indies, and has offered me such a pretty share of the profits that I have agreed to make a few trips for him. Then I shall have enough to build a cage for my bird, and to buy, not simply a share in a schooner, but a whole schooner – all by myself, I hope, and we will be made folks for life."

"Oh! You're going away again, Dorn?"

"Yes, but only for short voyages of a month or so at a time, and I'll be over to see my little Mollie every time I'm in home port; and in the fall, if not before, we'll be married. No more long voyages for me."

"I'm so glad to hear you say that, dear; and I can wait patiently, even happily, when I may see you sometimes." And, possibly for happiness still, the girl began crying softly again.

"Come, come, little Mollie," said her sailor lover, consoling her with a kiss, "there's no occasion to rig the pumps in such fair weather as this."

Mary smiled through her tears, and dried her eyes.

"Now," he continued, "let me hear your voice, darling. Tell me something."

"What shall I tell you?"

"Tell me again if you still love me."

For answer she put her arm around his neck, drew his face down to hers, and kissed him. What words could have been so complete and eloquent an assurance as that chaste and tender caress?

"My own dear little wife," he exclaimed, embracing her passionately.

"Don't call me 'wife' until I am one," she said, with assumed earnestness, "for I'm told it's unlucky."

"Well, maybe it may be," he answered slowly and doubtingly. "There's no denying that there is something in luck. Every sailorman knows there are unlucky things, such as sailing on a Friday, and drowning a cat, and lots more, and that may be so. Well, I won't take any chances on it. But I've thought of you for eleven hundred days and nights as my little wife, and the words sprang naturally to my lips. Still I'll try not to call you so any more until we are married."

"And to prevent any harm from your indiscretion I suppose I must use the counter-charm."

"And that is – ?"

"To call you," and winding her arms again about his neck she whispered in his ear, "my big husband."

And then, of course, there were more suitable ceremonials, endearments and caresses, and mutual protestations of undying affection, such as young people so circumstanced have always made, make yet, and doubtless will make to the end of time.

How very short the time seemed to the lovers from the moment of their meeting until by a glance at the stars, the true sailor's clock, Dorn saw that it was near the hour for him to leave Elysium and hasten to join a shipmate, who was waiting for him in a light sail-boat off Napeague Inlet, to take him back to New London and the stern realities of life. And so, after a final settlement as to the probable time of his return from his first West Indian voyage; and a little more previsionary talk about the happiness of which they were so well assured the enjoyment in the coming autumn; and consequently more love-making and caressing, all of which could have no interest for anybody but themselves, the lovers parted.

V.

THE POISON OF GOLD

There was no difficulty whatever in establishing the identity of the Van Deust brothers, and no obstacles were interposed to prevent their entering into possession of their fortune as speedily as the forms of law and the time requisite for communication with Holland would permit; for in those days it had not yet become a branch of the legal business to stir up vexatious will contests, based upon the fictitious claims of presumptive heirs, in order that lawyers might fleece the real inheritors. Even before the money arrived from Holland Peter wanted a few thousand dollars of it in the house as a tangible evidence of the reality of their wealth; and Mr. Holden very cheerfully humored his whim by making him an advance of the required amount. The old man had no idea of investing the money, or buying anything with it; but he loved to run his fingers through the glittering coins from time to time and listen to the mellifluous music of their chinking; to count, and recount, and pile the yellow discs, and think what he could do with them if he had a mind to. The unhappy fact was that this sudden acquisition of wealth had developed a really miserly disposition in the elder brother. As is very common, especially among those who only acquire large fortunes late in life, possession begat in him a longing to possess. He even felt it an injury that he had been all those years without that money, the existence even of which he had not known, and for which, now that he clutched it, he really had not the slightest use. He had never been one at whom the tongue of scandal might have wagged the reproach of prodigality, even in his youth; but his jealously careful economy was greater now than it had ever before been.