University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

The boat from the unknown vessel reached the
point jutting out into the river, in front of the dwelling
of the old pastor; and the seaman, already more than
once introduced to our notice, leaving the two men in
charge of it, took his way to the habitation in question.
The old man received the stranger with all the hospitalities
of the region, and ushered him into the
presence of his family with due courtesy, though as a
stranger. The seaman seemed evidently to constrain
himself while surveying the features of the inmates,
which he did with some curiosity; and had Harrison
been present, he might have remarked, with some dissatisfaction,
the long, earnest, and admiring gaze
which, in this survey, the beautiful features of Bess
Matthews were made to undergo, to her own evident
disquiet. After some little chat, with that bluff, free,
hearty manner which is the happy characteristic of
the seafaring man, the stranger contrived to remove
much of the unfavourable impression which his gross
and impudent cast of face had otherwise made, and in
reply to the natural inquiry of the pastor to that effect,
he gave a brief account of the nature of his pursuits
in that quarter,—and though a close and scrutinizing
mind might have picked out no small number of flaws
in the yarn which he spun, yet to the unsophisticated
sense of the little family, the story was straight forward
and clear enough. The trade in furs and skins
usually carried on with the Indians was well known
to be exceedingly valuable in many of the European

markets, and with this object the seaman accounted
for his presence in a part of the world, not often
honoured with the visit of a vessel of so much pretension
as that which he commanded. From one thing to
another, with a fluent, dashing sort of speech, he went
on—now telling of his own, and now commenting
on their adventures, and, bating an occasional oath,
which invariably puckered up the features of the old
Puritan, he contrived to make himself sufficiently
agreeable, and after a very passable fashion. Bessy
did not, it is true, incline the ear after the manner of
Desdemona to her Blackamoor, but in the anecdote,
hurried and rash, which every now and then enriched
the rambling speech of their guest, either in the tale
of his own, or of the achievement of others, she found
much, in spite of herself, to enlist her curiosity and
command her attention. Nor was he less influenced
by her presence than she by his narrative. Though
spoken generally, much of his conversation was
seemingly addressed in especial to the maiden. With
this object, he sprinkled his story full of the wonders
of the West Indies, with all of which he appeared familiar—spoke
of its luscious fruits and balmy climates
—its groves of lemon and of orange—its dark-eyed
beauties, and innumerous productions of animate and
vegetable life. Then of its gold and jewels, the ease
of their attainment, and all that sort of thing, which
the vulgar mind would be apt to suppose exceedingly
attractive and overcoming to the weak one. Having
said enough as he thought, fairly and fully to dazzle
the imagination of the girl—and secure now of a
favourable estimate of himself, he drew from his
bosom a little casket, containing a rich gold chain of
Moorish filigree work, arabesque wrought, and probably
a spoil of Grenada, and pressed it on her acceptance.
His manner was so assured, that her refusal
to do so called for the open expression of his astonishment.

“And wherefore not—young lady? The chain is
not unbecoming for the neck, though that be indeed

the whitest. Now, the girls of Spain, with a skin
nothing to be compared with yours, they wear them
thick as grape vines. Come, now—don't be shy and
foolish. The chain is rich, and worth a deal of money.
Let me lock it now. You will look like a queen in
it—a queen of all the Indies could not look more so.”

But the sailor blundered grossly. Bess Matthews
was a thinking, feeling woman, and he addressed her
as a child. She had now recovered from the interest
which she had shown while he narrated adventures
which excited her imagination, and set her fancy in
glow, conjuring up and putting into activity many of
those imaged dreams which the young romancer has
so ready at all times in thought—and she soon convinced
him that he had greatly mistaken her, when he
was so willing to transfer to himself the attention
which she had simply yielded to his stories. He now
almost shrunk at the gentle but lofty tone in which
she reiterated her refusal to accept the proffered ornament.
But the next moment with visible vexation, to
the astonishment of the old pastor, he thus addressed
him:—

“Why, Matthews, you have made your daughter as
great a saint as yourself. Ha! I see you stagger.
Didn't know me, eh! Didn't remember your old parish
acquaintance, Dick Chorley.”

The pastor looked at him with some interest, but
with more seeming commiseration.

“And are you little Richard?”

“Little, indeed—that's a good one. I was once
little, and little enough, when you knew me,—but I am
big enough now, John Matthews, to have myself
righted when wrong is done me. It is not now, that
the parish beadle can flog little Dick Chorley. Not
now, by God!—and it's been a sore sorrow with some
of them, I think, that it ever was the case.”

“Well Richard, I'm glad to find you so much better
off in the world, and with a better disposition to work
for yourself honestly, than in old times,” said the
pastor.

“Hark ye, Matthews—no more of that. That's as
it may be. Perhaps I'm better—perhaps I'm not. It's
none of your business either one way or the other;
and to look back too closely into old time doings, ain't
a friend's part, I'm thinking. Blast me! old man, but
you had nearly made me forget myself; and I wouldn't
like to say rough things to you or any of yours, for
I can't but remember you were always more kind to
me than the rest, and if I had minded you I had done
better. But what's done can't be undone, and the least
said is soonest mended.”

“I meant not to speak harshly, Richard, when I
spoke of the past,” said the pastor, mildly, “but the
exile finds it sweet to remember, even those things
which were sorrows in his own land. I find it so with
me; and though to speak plainly, Richard, I would
rather not see to know you as of old, yet the recognition
of your person, for a moment, gave me a
sentiment of pleasure.”

“And why should it not—and why should it not?
Blast me, old man, but you don't think I'm the same
ragged urchin that the parish fed and flogged—that
broke his master's head, and was the laughing stock,
and the scapegoat of every rascality in the shire?—no,
no. The case is changed now, and if I'm no better,
I'm at least an abler man; and that stands for right
and morality all the world over. I'm doing well in the
world, Matthews—drive a good trade—own half in as
handsome a clipper as over swum like a gull in the
blue waters of the gulf; and, if the world will let me,
I shall probably in little time be as good—that is
to say as rich a man—as any of them. If they won't,
they must look out for themselves, that's all.”

“One thing pleases me, at least, Richard,” said the
pastor, gravely, “and that is to find your pursuits such
that you need not be ashamed of them. This should
give you an honest pride, as it certainly yields me
pleasure.”

There was rather more of inquiry than of remark
in this observation, and Chorley saw it.

“Ay, ay, if it pleases you I'm satisfied. You are
a good judge of what's right, and can say. For my
part, I make it a rule to boast nothing of my virtue.
It takes the polish off a good action, to turn it over too
often in one's mouth.”

There was a satirical chuckle following the speech
of the sailor which the pastor did not seem to relish.
It seemed to sneer at the joint homilies which they
had been uttering. The dialogue was changed by the
pastor.

“And where is your mother now, Richard?”

“Ask the parish church-yard—it has one grave
more, that I can swear for, than when you left it; and,
though I'm bad at grammar, I could read the old woman's
name upon the stick at the head. When she
died I came off—I couldn't stand it then, though I
stood it well enough before. They have not seen me
since, nor I them—and there's no love lost between us.
If I ever go back, it will be to see the old beadle and
that grave stick.”

“I hope you harbour no malice, Richard, against the
man for doing his duty?”

“His duty?”

“Yes, his duty. He was the officer of the law, and
compelled to do what he did. Wherefore then would
you go back to see him simply, and then, so strangely
associated with your mother's grave?”

“Ha! that's it. He broke her heart by his treatment
to me, and I would break his scull upon her grave
as a satisfaction to both of us. I did wrong when a boy,
that's like enough, for older people did wrong daily about
me, but was my public disgrace to cure me of my
wrong? They put me in the stocks, then expected me
to be a good citizen. Wise enough. I tell you what,
Matthews, I've seen something more of the world than
you, though you've seen more years than I; and mark
my word, whenever a man becomes a bad man, a thief,
an outlaw, or a murderer, his neighbours have to thank
themselves for three fourths of the teachings that have
made him so. But this is enough on this talk. Let

us say something now of yourself—and first, how do
you like this part of the world?”

“As well as can be expected. I am indifferent to
any other, and I have quiet here, which I had not always
in the turbulent changes of England. My family
too are satisfied, and their contentment makes the
greater part of mine.”

“You'd find it better and pleasanter in Florida. I
drive a good business there with the Spaniard. I'm
rather one myself now, and carry his flag, though I
trade chiefly on my own log.”

The dialogue was here broken in upon by the entrance
of Harrison, who, in spite of the cold courtesies
of the pastor, and the downcast reserve in the eyes of
Bess Matthews, yet joined the little group with the
composure of one perfectly satisfied of the most cordial
reception.