25. CHAPTER XXV.
Now I will believe
That there are unicorns; that in Arabia
There is one tree the Phœnix' throne; one Phœnix
At this hour reigning there. * * I'll believe both,
And what else doth want credit, come to me
And I'll be sworn 't is true.
Shakspeare.—Tempest.
The windows of heaven were opened that night.
The rain descended in sheets instead of drops; and it
was only by an occasional flash of paly lightning that
our unfortunate was able to find the house which he
well recollected for John Harrington's. There it was
in all its fresh whiteness and greenness, and its deep
masses of foliage, and its rich screens of honeysuckle
and sweet-briar, meet residence for a happy bridegroom
and his new-found treasure. The upper half of the
parlour shutters was unclosed, and plainly by the clear
bright lamp-light could Henry see the delicate papering
of the walls, and the pretty French clock under its
glass shade on the mantel-piece. Oh! for one glance at
the table, near which he felt sure Agnes was sitting.
Wild thoughts of the old song—
We took but ae kiss, an' we tore ourselves away.
Were coursing through his brain, and he was deliberating
upon the chance that the end window, which looked
on a piazza, might be free from the envious shutter,
when a man ran against him in the dark. The
next flash showed a great-coated figure entering the
pretty rural gate to the little shrubbery; and in another
moment the hall-door opened. Henry saw the
interior, light and cheerful; and again all was dark.
It would have been very wrong to set the house on
fire and then go and murder Job Jephson; and as
Henry could not at the moment decide upon any other
course of conduct, which would be at all in unison
with his feelings, he set out, a human loco-motive at the
top-speed, in the very teeth of the storm, on his way
towards the sea-port again. The worse one feels, the
faster one travels, hoping to outrun sorrow; so it did
not take Henry Beckworth long to reach a neighbouring
town, where he could find a stage-coach; and he
was far at sea again in the course of a very few days.
His outre-mer adventures are of no importance to
my story—how, as he stood with two or three messmates,
staring, like a true Yankee, at the Tower of
London, a press-gang seized them all, and rowed them
to a vessel which lay off the Traitor's Gate, the Americans
protesting themselves such, and the John Bulls
laughing at them;—how, when they got on board the
man o' war, they showed their protections, and the
officer of his Majesty's recruiting service said he could
do nothing in the case till the ship returned from her
cruize—and how the ship did not return from her
cruize, but after cruizing about for some three years or
more, was taken by a French first-rate and carried into
Brest. All this is but little to the purpose. But when
Henry was thrown into a French prison, his American
certificate procured his release through the consul's
good offices, and he shipped at once for New-York,
somewhat weary of a sea life.
At New-York he learned from a townsman whom he
met there that Agnes Harrington had been two years
a window.
“Is she rich?” asked Henry. A strange question
for a true lover.
“Rich!—Lord bless ye! John Harrington was n't
worth that;” snapping his fingers most expressively.
His property was under mortgage to such an extent,
that all it would sell for would n't clear it. His widow
and child will not have a cent after old Horner forecloses,
as he is now about doing. And Mrs. Harrington's
health is very poor, though to my thinking she's
prettier than ever.”
Henry's movements were but little impeded by baggage,
and the journey to Langton was performed in a
short time. Once more was he set down at Job Jephson's;
and there was day-light enough this time to see,
besides the oval sign before hinted at, which had for
years held out hopes of “Entertainment for man and
beast,” a legend over the door in great white characters,
“Post Office,”—“good business for Job,” thought
Henry Beckworth,—a board in one window setting
forth, “Drugs and Medicines,” and a card in the other,
“Tailoring done here.”
Slight salutation contented Henry, when the man of
letters made his appearance, and he requested a horse to
carry him as far as his father's, saying he would send
for his trunk in the morning. Mr. Jephson made
some little difficulty and delay, but Henry seemed in
fiery haste. In truth he hated the sight of Job beyond
all reason; but that complacent personage seemed to
have forgotten, very conveniently, all former passages
in that memorable bar-room.
“You do n't ask after your old friends, Harry,” said
he. “A good many things has altered here since I see
you last. You came that time a little too late.”
Henry looked dirks at the fellow, but he went on as
coldly as ever.
“Now this time, to my thinkin', you've come a
leetle too soon.”
Henry tried not to ask him what he meant; but for
his life he could not help it.
“Why, I mean, if John Harrington's widow has not
more sense than I think she has, you've come in time
to spoil a good match.”
“A match!” was all Henry could say.
“Aye, a match; for Colonel Boon came from there
yesterday, and sent for old Horner here to this blessed
house, and took up the mortgage on Harrington's property;
and every body knows he has been after Aggy
this twelvemonth, offering to marry her and clear the
property, and do well by the child. And if there's a
good man on airth, Boon is that man, and every body
knows it.”
What did Henry Beckworth now? He un-ordered
his horse, and went quietly to bed.
