"You shall take a hand at killing the first whale; shall command the larboard boat. And you shall never want a friend while Captain Price Bottom treads this quarter-deck," he concluded.

t.i.te bowed, and thanked his benefactor again. He then proceeded to his duty, as the ship headed for Bahia, with a fair wind.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE COMING WINTER, AND A MERRY-MAKING.

November was come now. The day I write of was damp and cheerless. Grey, vapory clouds swept over the Tappan Zee, and a sad, sighing wind tossed it into crests. A drizzling rain fell over Nyack, and the little town looked as if it had just taken a bath and gone to sleep for the night.

The hills wore a cold and bleak look, the foliage had lost its bright, golden tints, and now looked faded and colorless. The leaves, too, were falling, and the naked trees seemed weeping and cold. Sheep browsed on the hill-sides, or nibbled coldly under the branches of sheltering trees. In the wet, dripping barn-yard cattle were seen huddled together under a lee, now seeking warmth in the fresh shocks, now proclaiming their troubles in subdued lowing.

The very landscape seemed weeping and melancholy. Even the summer birds, whose songs give such a charm to the woods, were gone. And there was the loon upon the lake gabbling his welcome to the approaching winter. The rain, too, had filled the brooks, and their waters were gurgling down deep, shadowy dells, mingling their touching music with the sad, sighing wind. There were pleasant memories entwined in that departing summer; and it now seemed as if all nature was joining in a requiem to its fading beauties.

The settlers had gathered their winter fruit, and the cider-presses had finished their work for the season. Squashes were hung up in the cellar, the corn was shucked and in the bins, and heaps of ripe, l.u.s.ty pumpkins stood in the fields. In the houses fresh flitches of bacon hung by the fireside, while festoons of dried apples decorated the beams overhead.

There, too, were the young nut-gatherers, coming home of an evening with their well-filled satchels. There was to be peace and plenty at the settlers' fireside this winter, for an all-wise Providence had so ordained it in an abundant harvest.

It was a custom with Hanz Toodleburg, as it was also with many other of the settlers, to entertain his friends and neighbors with a merry-making when the harvest was gathered. Hanz had invited his neighbors on the evening of the day I have described, and notwithstanding the cold and cheerless character of the night, the little house was full ere it was dark. The bright, happy faces of the women, and the jolly, ringing laugh of the men, all dressed in their neat new homespun, presented a pleasant picture of rustic life. Each man came armed with a long pipe, while his good vrow had some little present for Angeline. Hanz had a warm, hearty shake of the hand for each of his guests. Indeed, he welcomed each of the good vrows with a kiss and an admonition to be happy while they were under his roof. And these good vrows put their hands to the wheel, and a.s.sisted Angeline in preparing the feast. Indeed, she soon had her table spread with as good and well-cooked fare as could be found in the county.

There was the cold boar's head, decorated with flowers; the fattest turkey, roasted before the great fire; boiled beef, bathed in odorous krout, and declared delicacies by every st.u.r.dy Dutchman; a spiced ham, decorated with vegetables. Then there were apple and pumpkin pies just baked, cuddled apples, and jam, and fresh cranberry sauce. And these were backed up with new cider and home-brewed ale, and coffee. Such was the supper Hanz had prepared for his friends, and which he invited them to eat and be happy.

The good-natured Dominie was there, and so was Doctor Critchel and the school-master. Nor was t.i.tus Bright, the inn-keeper, forgotten. They were equally important characters in the settlement, and no honest Dutchman, who had any regard for his reputation for hospitality, would think of giving a merry-making without them. The good Dominie was fond of puddings and pies, and preached that the three highest objects a man had to live for were peace, contentment, and a good dinner. The Dutch regarded this as good enough religion for them--better, perhaps, than that preached by the man of the church of progressive ideas. The school-master could sing a good song, and, although an idle, shiftless fellow, got more invitations to supper than any other man in the settlement. As for the inn-keeper, he was a merry little man, who made everybody laugh, and was held in high esteem by all the good vrows around Nyack.

Now that the supper was ready, there was a general exchange of vrows, for it was not considered etiquette to sit at table with your own wife during one of these feasts. Then the Dominie invoked G.o.d's blessing on the bounties He had spread before them, thanked Him for the bountiful harvest, and for the love He had shown these happy people. He then proceeded to carve the boar's head, while every man and woman present went to enjoying the feast.

When supper was over and the table cleared away the men took to their pipes and discussed their crops, and the women discoursed of carding, and spinning, and housewifery in general. Then there was a dance around the apple-basket, and a dance in which every man kissed every other man's vrow, and in which the Dominie joined, and was as jolly as any of his flock. And they danced to the music of a fiddle, played by Lame George, who lived up in the mountain. Then the Dominie told a number of amusing stories, and the school-master sang them several of his best songs, and cider and ale was drank.

And while the pleasantry was at its highest, a loud knock was heard at the door. The revelry ceased for a moment. There was the postmaster's boy, bearing a letter with several curious stamps on it. Hanz was overjoyed. He shook the boy's hand, and then scanned over the letter.

"G.o.d pless mine poor poy, t.i.tus!" he exclaimed. "He wrotes dat ledder.

Yes, he does; mine poor poy t.i.tus does;" and he struck his hands on his knees, and laughed with joy. "He ton't forgets his old fadder. He be's a goot poy, mine t.i.tus." And he shook hands with the Dominie and the inn-keeper. Indeed, he seemed so completely unmanned that he was powerless to open the letter. Then he took a candle in his right hand, and again scanned and scanned the superscription. "Sumthin' goot in dat ledder. Mine poor poy t.i.tus writes him!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, in a subdued tone.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Then tears gushed into her eyes and moistened her pale cheeks. Page 102.]

During all this time, for it seemed long to Angeline, she became pale with anxiety. Then tears gushed into her eyes and moistened her pale cheeks. But they were tears of joy, not sorrow--the wealth of that pure, honest heart now beating so violently in antic.i.p.ation of the good tidings. When Hanz had somewhat controlled his feelings he sat down in the big chair, and with Angeline looking anxiously over his shoulder and holding the candle, opened and began reading the letter "Yesh, t'is mine poor poy t.i.tus as writes him," he said, pausing for a moment. "Hish name shust as he wrotes him when a poy." The rest of the company looked on and listened in silence. Then he resumed the reading. "Vell, dere wash a pig sthorm, and t' ship most goes down to t' pottom. Den she does'nt go to t' pottom. No, she no goes to t' pottom. Den mine poy, he shaves t' ship." Hanz went over the letter in this incoherent manner, and then handed it to the Dominie to read for the entertainment of the company. The letter was dated at Bahia, where the ship had put in for fresh supplies, as was the custom with whalers. He gave a glowing account of the voyage, and the storm, and the persons he found on board.

The good Dominie was several times interrupted by some one of the company invoking a blessing on t.i.te's head. And when it was announced that he had been made third mate of the ship, an expression of joy broke on every lip. The school-master shook Hanz warmly by the hand, and the inn-keeper declared it would not surprise him if t.i.te came home captain of the ship.

"High, high!" exclaimed the Dominie, re-adjusting his spectacles; "here's news. An old acquaintance has turned up." Then turning to Critchel, he touched that odd old gentleman on the elbow, saying: "You remember the old grave-digger of thirty years ago, oh, Critchel?"

"Well, very well," replied Critchel; "he was a clever old man, and did his business well. He used to say I brought people into the world, and he sent them out."

"Bless me!" resumed the Dominie; "if here is'nt his son come to life again. The poor fellow! we all knew him well. t.i.te says here that he has found a good friend in the captain, an old acquaintance of his mother.

And who do you think it is?"

Not one in the company could answer, although Angeline blushed, and looked confused. "Price Bottom, son of that clever old man, the grave-digger," concluded the Dominie.

"How strange," said the inn-keeper. "Old Bottom had many a gla.s.s of ale at my house, and never troubled anybody, except to dig their graves."

"He was very poor," rejoined Critchel, in a subdued voice, "and died leaving my bill unpaid. But he was an honest man, and paid when he had it."

"The son was a queer young man," resumed the Dominie. "n.o.body seemed to care anything about him. And when he left the settlement it was thought he had got into the city and became a worthless. But here he is, made a man of himself and has not forgot his old friends."

This was good news to Angeline and Hanz. Still the name of Price Bottom, the grave-digger's son, revived old if not pleasant memories. The odd old captain had not forgotten his first love. The flame of that love always burns, but never dies out. Disappointment may cross it, may for a time veil its charm, but never can quench it. How strange, Angeline thought, that her darling boy, the consolation of her heart, should have met this once discarded lover, and under such circ.u.mstances. And that he should be such a friend and protector to her boy only showed how good a heart he had.

The good news gave an additional charm to the evening's entertainment.

One after another shook Hanz and Angeline by the hand, and congratulated them on the happy prospect. Indeed, they seemed the happiest people on earth. Mugs of fresh cider were filled and drank to the health of Captain Price Bottom, of the good ship Pacific--the poor fellow who had only a grave-digger for a father, and left the settlement friendless and without a shilling.

And now these st.u.r.dy settlers again took to their pipes, and having smoked in silence for at least five minutes, embraced and kissed their hosts, and parted for the night.

CHAPTER XV.

MRS. CHAPMAN AND THE UPPER CIRCLES.

Let us go back, gentle reader, into the village of Nyack on that same damp, stormy night, and into the house of Bigelow Chapman, the reformer.

A very different picture was presented there. The reformer was up stairs, studying plans for the future. His s.p.a.cious parlor was furnished with a profusion of furniture, of the most approved style, and such as was not common in the country at that day. They have got a new piano, too; and a nice young gentleman in reduced circ.u.mstances, a foreigner, is expected up from New York to give their daughter lessons on it. This little affair of the piano and the foreigner has set the whole town to talking, and people are putting on grave faces, and inquiring how they can afford it. But it seems they do afford it, and also to have the best of carpets on their parlor floor. And they have shown a taste for art in several engravings hung on the walls.

The Chapmans expected company from the city that night. A bright coal fire and a globe lamp on the centre-table are shedding a soft, mellow light, and adding an air of comfort and cheerfulness to everything in the room.

Mattie was sitting alone in the parlor reading a letter by the light on the centre-table. Her dress was a plain black silk, made high at the neck, and with an open stomacher, disclosing an aggravating bit of white lace. There was always something neat and becoming in Mattie's dress, and the white ruffles that now encircled her neck and wrists added the charm of simplicity to her appearance. Her hair, too, was almost golden, and hung in long, careless curls down her shoulders.

There was something of deep interest to her in that letter, for she read and re-read it, as her soft, blue eyes, so full of love and tenderness, almost filled with tears. Then she kissed it, and kissed it, and pressed it to her bosom. "Oh, how I wish he was here to-night, that I could tell him how much I love him;" she said, resting her head on her hand thoughtfully. "I would tell him all my thoughts and feelings, just as he has told me his. He is so true to me, and it never shall be said that I am not true to him, poor fellow!" she mused, and putting the letter to her lips again she kissed and kissed it. "They never can get me to love any one else, never!" she resumed, when the door opened and Mrs. Chapman entered, arrayed in her best millinery, and her front hair screwed into the tightest of curls. The good woman had evidently resolved to put on her very best appearance.

"These disappointments are very annoying, my daughter, very," she spoke, advancing and fretting her hand nervously. "If our company does not come then--well, all our dressing will be for nothing. I wanted you so much to see Mr. Gusher, my daughter. He's such a nice young gentleman, so clever and agreeable--and has such a distinguished look, my daughter."

Mrs. Chapman expanded herself, while emphasizing the word distinguished.

She then filled the great arm-chair with her weighty person. "To get prepared for company, and city company at that, and then have company not come!" she resumed, casting a glance at Mattie, to see if she could discern in her countenance what impression she had made. But Mattie remained silent and thoughtful.

"It's not Mr. Gusher's fault, though. We must charge it all to the storm, I suppose. Then I did want you to see Mr. Gusher so much, my daughter. He is such a nice young man--and has such prospects. And prospects is what a young woman should look to when gentlemen come seriously inclined to matrimony--"

"Mother," said Mattie, interrupting, "I have got such a nice letter. It has made me so happy. I know you would like to read it. You always like to read my letters, you know." And Mattie looked playfully in her mother's face, and handed her the letter. "You will be delighted to hear from him. He says so many kind, good things."

Mrs. Chapman took the letter and scanned over it hastily. "And so it has come to this, has it?" she said, looking admonishingly at Mattie. "A letter from that sailor-boy, the son of them common Dutch people. Your father shall see this. Our daughter has stooped so low as to pledge herself to such a common man!"

"I love you, mother," said Mattie, "and I don't want to be disobedient; but I love him, and I know he loves me. Yes, mother, I love t.i.te just as much as if he was a rich man's son. I dreamed last night that he came home a rich man, and brought me so many nice things; and that we were married, and were so happy." And she threw her arms around her mother's neck and kissed her so affectionately. "Who knows, mother, but that he may come home rich? But even if he comes home poor, I know he will be good and true to me," she concluded.

"How very sentimental you are, my daughter," rejoined Mrs. Chapman, the little curls about her brow seeming to get tighter as her broad face grew redder. "Sentimental people never prosper, though--never knew one yet that did. Was silly and sentimental once myself. That was before I married your father."

"Oh," rejoined Mattie, playfully, "I am real glad that you remember those things, mother. Was father rich when you were married?"

Mrs. Chapman shook her head, and looked confused for a moment. "He was not rich, my daughter. But then he was so clever--and had such intellectual prospects. Brought up as you have been, my daughter, and with such accomplishments, and such prospects!--to throw yourself away on a sentiment. Just think of it! What would my mother have said if I had gone off and married a man just for sentiment's sake? I brought you up in strict regard to all the proprieties, and now you insist that you won't be a lady."

"Don't fret so, mother," said Mattie, again putting her arms around her mother's neck, and kissing her. "I will be a real good, obedient girl, and do anything you bid me. But then--" Here Mattie paused for a moment, and looked roguishly up into her mother's face.

"But then--what?"