 | CHAPTER X. Bankrupt stories |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
INVOLVES JEREMIAH IN A VERY STRANGE ADVENTURE, AND
CLOSES THE SECOND DIVISION OF THIS HISTORY.
THE good fortune which had fallen to Julia Tuck had
produced a greater change in the feelings of all her relatives
than it had in her; for although it was a source of
unspeakable joy to her to have it in her power to bestow a
fortune upon the man whom she loved above all the earth,
the fortune itself was otherwise trivial in her eyes, for she
had resolved, at the first, to use no part of it for her own gratification,
and to leave it to the generosity of her future husband
to bestow what part he chose upon her mother and brothers.
But as she had not intimated her determination to them, they
revelled in the most intoxicating anticipations of the uses to
which they would appropriate her money, and looked upon
her and her husband, whoever he might be, as persons of secondary
consideration to themselves.
Mrs. Tuck had already engaged an extra servant and
ordered a silver tea-set, and her youngest son, Fred, had sent
off his library of novels to be re-bound in green morocco; he
had bought a new gold-headed cane, a crimson satin robe-de-chambre
lined with white merino, a pair of cream-colored
horses, and had bespoke a yellow tiger. His brother Tom, who
hated ostentation in dress and furniture, had simply furnished
himself with the costliest pocket-chronometer he could find,
stocks large enough to ruin the richest merchant in Wall
street. His highest ambition, and the object of all his operations,
was to gain a reputation in that particular spot; and
let not the reader accuse him of a low ambition, for Tom well
knew that a sensation in Wall street, like a throb of the heart
in the animal economy, would be felt at the extremities of the
world which bounded his vision. As his sister had not yet
come into possession of her property, it could not of course be
of any service to him in an actual operation where money
must be paid out; but the reputation of a rich relation will
enable a man to transact a very heavy business on credit,
which his character alone would not allow him to do. This
trading upon the reputation of one's friends, although practised
to a very great extent, does not seem to accord with the
cunning and cautiousness of the mercantile profession. But
merchants are like a certain species of domestic animals, whose
name it will not do to mention in this connection, that are so
suspicious, and so close; that you could not by the most artful
representations deceive them into danger, nor even induce
them to show their heads in daylight, but by the mere scent
of a piece of toasted cheese, may be lured into traps which
otherwise they could not have been persuaded to look at from
a distance.
When this amiable family assembled at their tea-table, they
seemed to be invested with new characters, every individual
with the exception of the young lady, having grown very
dignified and high minded, so much so, indeed, that they not
only exacted a more dignified bearing in others, but they displayed
their own airs with profuse liberality; even the cook
and chambermaid had caught the infection and tossed their
heads disdainfully to the servants next door.
Mrs. Tuck was continually jogging the memories of the
boys not to forget their sister, and the boys were continually
reminding each other that they took no notice of Julia, and
asked her in the same breath if they could do anything for
her in the evening, and both of them brought her a present;
Fred's, being a newly imported annual, filled with the softest
looking female nobilities conceivable, and Tom's, a gold
fillagree card-case.
These attentions appeared rather to embarrass their sister
than to please her; the rudeness with which they had formerly
treated her was not so annoying, because it was more
genuine. Nothing can make a sensitive person more uneasy
than to be treated with insincerity, because you cannot tell the
exact degree of deceit which is practised towards you, and as
you do not want to repay kind attentions with contempt, you
do not want to acknowledge yourself deceived by returning
thanks for sinister motives.
But, in the case of Julia Tuck and her brothers, there was
no need of refining upon motives, as she understood them perfectly
well, and gave them to understand that they did not
deceive her. With the second cup of tea, all the assumed
airs with which they had sat down began to wear off, and
they all gradually fell into their natural characters.
“So, they say Jack Tremlett has sloped,” observed Fred to
his brother; “do you really think he has gone to England?”
Julia turned pale and let her cup slip from her fingers.
“My son!” said Mrs. Tuck frowning upon Fred, “how
can you be so rude.”
“Fact, isn't it Tom?”
“Fred, you are a fool,” replied his brother; “young Tremlett
has gone on a short journey somewhere on business; I
believe; at least, they told me so at the counting house.”
Julia took up her cup again, but she could not carry it to
her lips, her hand trembled so violently.
“I suppose he sent you a note, sister, to advise you of the
fact?” said Fred.
“No, he did not, you know he did not,” she replied, bursting
me; but the time will come when you will not sport with my
feelings.”
“Now children,” said Mrs. Tuck in a tone of authority, “I
command you to conduct yourselves with more propriety towards
your sister; please remember, both of you, that she is
no longer a child, and that her present position entitles her to
a more respectful and affectionate manner than you have
been accustomed to show to her. Your sister is the head of
the family now.”
“Well;” said Fred, shoving his plate across the table,
“suppose she is; am I to be held accountable for the actions of
Mister Jack Tremlett? I rather guess not.”
“Now mother,” said Tom, “if you want Fred to behave,
as he should, just learn to behave yourself.”
“Come, Tom, that's piling it up a little too high;” said
Fred in a reproving manner.
“And as for you, Julia,” continued Tom, turning to his
sister, “it is time you gave up that fellow. If he has gone to
Charleston without sending you word, I'll break off the match
as soon as he comes back. Just remember, all of you, that I
have got something to say in this family.”
“If he has left without sending me word,” replied Julia,
rising from the table, “It was because he had a very good
reason for doing so, and if I do not complain, no one else has
a right to do so.”
“If he has done that, you ought to complain,” said her mother,
“O! if your poor father had ever treated me so, I would
never have seen his face again.”
“There,” said Fred, “smoke that.”
“You are determined to drive me from this house,” said
Julia, “but if you do, I will never return to it,” and so saying
she left the room.
“Now you have done it,” said Tom.
“I?” said his mother.
“Yes, you, and you,” replied Tom.
“O, my children,” replied the mother, putting her handkerchief
to her eyes.
But, before any reply could be made, the chambermaid
came running into the room and exclaimed that Miss Julia
was in convulsions, upon which they all ran out together, in
great alarm, towards the young lady's chamber. We will
leave them to finish their evening's performance; and once
more return to Jeremiah with whose adventures we propose
to draw the second book of our history to a close.
Jeremiah had parted with his young friend in the morning
with a good deal of regret, for although he was to be absent
but a fortnight, yet for that fortnight he would be wholly destitute
of a sympathetic friend; and his sources of pleasure
were too restricted, for him not to feel sensibly the removal
of even one. He did not know the exact nature of the business
which called young Tremlett away; he only knew that
it was an urgent call, and thought no more about it, but the
letter which he had entrusted to his care puzzled him sorely
because it was directed to a young lady; and as soon as his
daily work was done he hurried up into the Bowery to the
old sailor's house to deliver it according to his instructions;
with a slight hope, perhaps, that he should learn something
of its contents.
Jeremiah had never been to the house before, and it was
quite dark when he reached there; he found the old couple
seated quietly before the little grate, with their grand daughter
seated between them reading from an old book of travels.
It was a huge volume liberally illustrated with plates, and
printed in a type almost too large to allow the eye to take in a
reasonably long word at a glance; the old sailor had brought
it from London when he was a youngster, and it had been read
through by all the members of his family scores of times, and
they still found amusement in its pages.
The old couple welcomed Jeremiah very heartily, and the
quired if it was Miss Clearman, and, as she blushed and
answered `yes,' he reached her the letter; upon which she
blushed still deeper, and asked if it was from her father.
“I do not know,” replied Jeremiah, “but I think not.”
For he was not so slow of apprehension as not to guess at
the nature of its contents when he perceived how surpassingly
beautiful the young lady was.
“I wonder who it can be from?” said Fidelia, turning the
letter over and over in her hand, and then trying to spell out
the motto on the seal, “Who can it be.”
“Open it and see, my little daughter,” said her grandfather
“that's the way I always used to do when I got a letter from
your grandmother,” and then the old man took his pipe from
his mouth and enjoyed a quiet honest laugh, which was so
genuine and unaffected that Jeremiah laughed too, and
thought he had never seen such a humorous old gentleman
before.
“Every body always knowed my letters easy enough,”
said the old man, “for you see, Mr. Jernegan, I never spelt
a word right in my life. Nat'rally I couldn't, for I never had
but one quarter's schooling; but then I always was sure to get
letters enough in it. They warn't put together in a ship-shape
fashion; and I always write so plain that you could read my
writing across the river; and my owners always said that
they had as lief read my letters as any ship-master's in their
employ;” and then the old man let his under lip fall and
shook his old body again with another quiet explosion of
mirth, which it was impossible to see and not try to imitate.
And while he had been talking to Jeremiah, Fidelia
had opened and read her letter.
“Well, what is the news my little daughter?” said the old
man.
“Nothing,” quietly answered Fidelia, as she folded up the
letter; but her grandmother perceived that she put her hand
afterwards, when she found an excuse to leave the
room, the old lady followed after her.
“Do you know who the letter was from, Mr. Jernegan?”
asked the old man, as soon the ladies had left the room.
“It was given to me by young Mr. Tremlett,” replied Jeremiah.
“Ah, I never liked the looks of letters from young people,”
said the old man drawing a long whiff at his pipe. “I don't
suppose that Mr. Tremlett would write anything out of the
way to my grand-darter, but I never liked the looks of letters.”
“I do not know that he wrote the letter,” said Jeremiah,
“but if he did, I can assure you that it contains nothing
wrong. He is incapable of an evil thought.”
“So I told my wife,” said the old man, “after he was here
the other night; but letters have a suspicious look. I am
now rising my seventy-sixth year, and I never wrote a letter
to a young woman in my life.”
“Indeed!” said Jeremiah.
“Never, and I don't think, now, I ever shall. And what
is more, I don't owe a dollar in the world; and I never was
sued, and I never sued a man in my life; and I never in all
my going to sea, which was for more than fifty-five years,
struck a man, or called one out of his name; and to the
best of my knowledge I never wronged a living soul out of a
copper, and I never spent a shilling for my pleasure in a
foreign port, in all my rambling about.”
“That is very remarkable,” said Jeremiah.
“It was always pleasure enough for me to sit down and
think about the old woman and the children; and I knew
that they wanted all the shillings I might have to spare.”
“And I dare say you never repented of your prudence,'
said Jeremiah.
“And what is more,” continued the old sailor after having
refreshed himself with two or three long pulls at his pipe, “I
Dutchman.”
“Is it possible,” said Jeremiah, opening his eyes very wide
“that you killed a Dutchman?”
“I will tell you how it happened,” said the old man, as he
knocked the ashes from his pipe and refilled it with tobacco,
“in the year eighty-five, I was second officer of the brig Betsey
lying in the port of Archangel, waiting for a cargo of tallow
to take to London. Our first officer was a Dutchman of the
name of Scraffle, and our skipper's name was captain Paddock;
he belonged to the town of Salem, and he was the
most ill-favored dog that ever stepped on a ship's deck; which
was owing mostly to his having been kicked in the face by a
horse. One Sunday afternoon I asked leave to take the jolly
boat and go ashore; the mate was standing by at the time,
and the captain said, no, because I was too much of an old
soldier. Now that, you know, Mr. Jernegan is the worst
name that you can call a sailor-man, and I was tempted to
take the captain and throw him overboard; but I kept my
temper, and I says to him, `I will keep my hands off of you,
captain Paddock, because it would not be respectful to strike
a superior officer, but I will tell you what I will do; as soon
as we get to the States, I'll go to Salem and enquire for the
horse that kicked you in the face, and if I can find him I will
treat him to a peck of oats. With that the mate began to
laugh, and the captain began to stamp and swear; and the
more he swore the more the mate laughed, until at last he
lay down upon the deck and began to roll over and over until
he rolled down into the fore peak, and one of the sailors, which
was an Irishman, jumped on deck and called out, `sure Mr.
Scraffle is kilt entirely.' And the captain says he, `there,
you have killed the mate with your confounded nonsense,'
`well,' said I, `that is the first man I ever killed;' and it was
the last.”
“And was he really killed?” asked Jeremiah with an
alarming look.
“O, no,” replied the old man, “he made out to eat his rations
the next day. But the skipper took good care never
to call me an old soldier again.”
Fidelia and her grandmother now returned, and the remainder
of the evening was spent in agreeable conversation; and
Jeremiah had just looked at his watch and was thinking
about bidding the good old couple and their lovely grand-daughter
good night, when he was startled by the warning
voice of Poll, who exclaimed with unusual solemnity `let us
pray.'
The history of the drab parrot now had to be related, which
gave Jeremiah greater delight than any history he had ever
listened to in his life, and his feelings had become so warmly
enlisted in favor of every member of the little family that when
the old lady invited him to remain and join in their evening service,
he dropped into a chair again with a feeling of infinite gratification,
and, at the close of the prayer, pronounced an amen
in as solemn and impressive a tone as the venerable bird
herself, who, at the sound of his voice, peered over the top of
the bureau as if looking for the individual who was attempting
to disturb her prerogative.
At last when Jeremiah could not decently prolong his
visit another moment, he took his leave equally in love with
the parrot and Fidelia, and the old man and his wife. Scarcely
had the door closed upon him when Fidelia took the letter
from her bosom, and kissed it with rapturous delight, and
clasped her arms around her grand-father's neck and sobbed
for very joy. It was her hour of happiness, which,
though she were never to know another, was so full of sweetness
and bliss, that it would suffice for a long life.
Her grandfather and grandmother cautioned her against indulging
in too lively hopes, and remainded her in their plain
and honest terms of the liability of every human expectation
to be blasted. But, though she listened attentively to their
admonitions, they could not dampen her ardent feelings. She
a feeling of awe. It was enough. How could there be disappointments
in a world which opened upon her vision so
brightly and so alluring.
Jeremiah came out of the little court and emerged into the
Bowery in a state of most delightful agitation, and it being
very dark, and the street but imperfectly lighted, he did not
discover until he had proceeded some distance, perhaps the
length of three or four blocks, that he was followed by a female
who was trying to overtake him. As soon as he did
perceive her, he stopped, and she caught hold of his arm.
“My good woman,” said Jeremiah, “what do you want
of me?”
“O, do not call me a good woman,” said the female, “I
am a very bad woman.”
“Are you, indeed,” said Jeremiah, whose heart was touched
by such a remarkable confession; “what can I do for you?”
“O, sir,” replied the woman, who appeared young and
handsome, as the street light illuminated her face, “O, sir,
you can do nothing for me; but my poor sister is dying, and
she cannot die in peace unless some good man will pray with
her. Will you not come to her?”
“My poor friend,” said Jeremiah, “I am far from being a
good man, but if I can be of service to your sister lead me to
her.”
“O, sir,” cried the unfortunate, “your are so good, and my
poor sister will die so happy, if you will but say a good word
to her and pray for her. This way sir, this way.”
And the woman clung to his arm and hurried him along until
they came to a dark cross-street into which she turned, and,
after walking a short distance, she turned into another dark
street and soon they came to a modern built brick house with
some kind of a tree in front, and having opened the street-door
with a night key she led him up a pair of stairs through
a well furnished hall, and conducted him into a small bedroom
chair. “Sit down,” she said upon which Jeremiah seated
himself in the rocking chair and she closed the door and
locked it on the outside. “Make yourself easy until morning,”
she said, speaking to him through the key hole, “my sister
is better.”
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