University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.
THE OLD LONDON COFFEE HOUSE.

“Solemnly, gentlemen, and truly, I must. There's daybreak in the
chinks of the door, and you can hear the kuckerekoos all over the town.
I must indeed—”

The little man smoothed his white apron, with his big hands arranged
his wig, which, sooth to say, inclined too much to the left side of his
narrow forehead, and arranged his hose, which hung somewhat loosely
about his knees. In one hand he held a burnished candlestick, containing
the last remains of a flickering light, and as he spoke, in tones at once
bland and deprecating, he accompanied every other word with a grotesque
genuflection, intended for a bow.

Around the table which stood near the broad fire-place—a circular
table, strewn with pewter mugs, long-necked bottles and broken pipes—
three persons were seated in capacious oaken chairs. Their faces
bloomed with the freshness of Madeira, or, to speak perchance more correctly,
leadened with the stupor of malt and tobacco. For every hand
grasped a mug of shining pewter, and a pipe of plain clay was inserted in
every mouth.

It was a large room, with white-washed walls and a neatly sanded
floor. In one corner, certain vessels glittering on a range of shelves, gave
some indications of the character of the place. The doors and windows
were carefully closed, as if to seclude the belated revellers from the light
of daybreak, and the remains of a glorious wood-fire smoked and smouldered
among the ashes of the hearth.

In a word, this room, into which we have so unceremoniously entered,
was nothing less than the famed public hall or bar-room of the “London
Coffee House,” a quaint fabric, with deep gabled roof, which stood at the
corner of Market and Front streets, to the great delight of the town-gossips
and coffee-drinkers of old Philadelphia.

Here the good people thronged to sip their coffee, tipple their Jamaica
rum, discuss the politics of the day, and decide upon the merits of King
George, and the Continental Congress.

The persons who occupied the oak chairs may attract our attention, as
appropriate types of certain classes of society in the year 1774.

One was a burly fellow, whose round cheeks vividly brought to mind
a lively image of the full moon on a Dutch clock, while his scarlet uniform
might have scared whole legions of male turkeys, and frightened a
herd of bulls into hysteries. With one leg—encased in a huge boot of

black leather, polished to a charm—laid upon the table, this gentleman
regaled himself with alternate whiffs of his pipe and draughts of beer.
Near him, with a very long nose, and lips of no character at all, was a
goodly citizen, whose dark attire, soiled by tobacco ashes and beer drippings,
gave evidence of the night-long revel. And beside the citizen,
whose steel buttons and steel knee-buckles spoke of the economical
habits of a careful son of traffic, was a slender youth, dressed daintily in a
wide-skirted coat of brownish velvet, with a buff waistcoat and satin
breeches. His face, rather insipid in its character, was very pale; his
large blue eyes—looking like the eyes of a Chinese mandarin on a porcelain
pitcher—were altogether leaden. As he smoked away, sucking at
the stem of his pipe with an energy that hollowed his haggard cheeks
into caverns, and started his leaden eyes from their sockets, he swayed to
and fro in the capacious arm-chair, with a motion that reminded you of
a crab-apple tossing about in a bowl of hot liquor.

“Must—eh?” said the scarlet gentleman, with a hiccup—“What must
you do, Tadkins?”

“The landlord, as you know, is gone to bed these three hours, and is
sleepin' away now at the top of his speed, with two night-caps on his
bald head, an' I must—indeed I must—”

Here Tadkins, the imposing representative—in the absence of the Land-lord—of
the dignity and beer of the far-famed “London Coffee House,”
elaborated a strange performance in gymnastics, by suddenly dropping his
head, stretching forth his arms, and scraping his right foot over the
sanded floor. This, translated into English, was intended to say, “I,
Christopher Tadkins, tapster of the Old London Coffee House, leave the
drift of my remarks to your good sense, gentlemen!”

“What does he mean?” cried the gayly attired youth, from a corner of
his spacious mouth, very remote from the centre—“Tad, it's rather odd, I
vow, 'fore George—” his favorite way of getting up a little genteel profanity—“Speak
out, man, and don't stand there bobbing your head until
your wig flies off—

“Yes—” remarked the elderly citizen—“enlighten us. Be lucid.
Translate yourself from dumb motion into English. Or, if you're drunk,
say so. We're not severe to-night. It's New Year's morning, you
know—”

The elderly gentleman buried the tip of his nose in the recesses of his
pewter mug.

“Why, gentlemen, you must see that's its reether late—” Tadkins
placed his right hand in the centre of his apron,—“I ax you to reflec'
—you, Antony Hopkins, Marchant—” he bowed to the elderly citizen—
“You, Octavius Germin, Esquire—” a bow to the pale-faced youth—
“an' you, Cap'in Grosby, of his Majesty's hundred and twelfth regiment—”

Poor Tadkins came to a sudden pause. In the fervor of his speech,
he had suddenly lost the idea, on the strength of which he commenced
his profound appeal.

“Well?” grunted the bluff Captain Grosby—“Well?”

“There's no denyin' it, gentlemen, it's as late as daybreak, and you
must g-o!” shrieked Tadkins in utter despair. “If I let you stay any
longer, the Lan'lord will give me such a latherin' to-morrow—that is, to-day—as—”

Again Tadkins came to a sudden halt.

“Germin—” the Captain waved his red hand, encircled by white
ruffles, toward the pale-faced youth—“Just oblige me by heating that
poker, and while it is doing, hand me an empty mug.”

There was a vast deal of significance in his bland whisper. Tadkins
retreated a step in evident alarm, while Germin handed the pewter mug,
with the remark—

“That's easier to manage than a hot poker. Shy it at his wig, but
don't hurt his head.”

Tadkins retreated another step—“Gentle-men!” he gasped.

“Now, Sirrah, do you see me? If you don't put a cork into that hole
in your face, and stop off your jabber, I'll just take the nicest piece of
flesh off the right corner of your cocoanut, that ever you did see. I will,
by —!”

We cannot decipher the oath, from the MSS. which relates this striking
threat, but have no hesitation in giving the assurance, that said oath was
fierce, bloody, royal—altogether worthy of a British Captain, inspired by
a sense of his dignity, and a dozen mugs of beer.

Tadkins, without a word, retreated toward the shelves, where his candle
shone over the array of burnished pewter. Yet, even as he shambled
along, he muttered an inaudible rejoinder, and grew very bitter on the
corpulent Briton, wishing among other things that his nose would set fire
to his face, and straightway reduce him to a cinder, as a warning to all
future ages. From the secure retreat near the furnished shelves, he
watched the drinking-party, with an earnestness that lasted only for an
instant. No sooner had Tadkins placed the candle on a shelf, and
straightened his wig—blacking one eye with the candle-snuff, which adhered
to his fingers, then he fell fast asleep, and snored like a north-wind
whistling through a key-hole.

“To resume—where did I leave off? Now that we're free from the
impertinent interruptions of this fellow—” Grosby looked with a sleepy
stare into the faces of his companions.

“At the stake in the middle of a dark woods with fire at your feet
and a troop of Indian devils dancing round you—” suggested the young
gentleman, speaking the sentence in one short breath.

“One in particular was touchin' you up with a pine torch under your

nose—” remarked the plain citizen, again secluding his nose from
the light.

“Yes, sirs!” The obese Captain panted for breath, as he forced the
smoke of his pipe through his large nostrils—“There I was. Tied to the
stake. Injins all around. Tomahawks—pine torches—ugly old women,
screaming like so many walking Bedlams. I was there, sirs. A tomahawk
was brandished over my head, but I looked the red scoundrel in the
eye—in the eye, sirs—in the eye—”

The Captain lifted his mug to his mouth, and, with the beer froth
clinging to his large lips, quietly remarked—

“I wonder why he does stay?”

It does not appear that this abrupt remark was connected, in the most
remote degree, with the narrative which the worthy Captain had been so
impressively telling. His companions were too far gone in the abstruse
meditations engendered by the beer mug, to notice this sudden diversion
of the Captain's train of thought. Indeed, Octavius was engaged in the
hopeless attempt to entrap an imaginary black beetle, which flitted between
his eyes and the unsnuffed candle, while friend Anthony muttered
to himself the mysterious words—“Only ten o'clock, my love—not so
late as you think—New Year's Eve, you know—”

He evidently imagined himself in the presence of his indignant spouse.

“Why does he stay?” repeated the Captain.

“Eh? I vow I don't know—” cried Octavius, suddenly brightening
up;—“He said that he would join us at three o'clock, and now it's day-break.
Were there ever such lively roosters in your part of the world?”
he added, as the trumpet peal of an early chicken-cock echoed through
the silence of the town.

“A lord—a lord—” muttered Anthony, with an absent eye, and finger
slowly undulating between his nose and his pewter mug—“A live Lord
in Philadelphia, consigned by his father to my care, and nobody knows
it. Nobody—except you—and you—and—he, he—and me.”

It was no doubt an excellent joke, for friend Anthony chuckled over it,
until his nose resembled a premium pear, at some horticultural exhibition.

“What are you doing?” cried the Captain, with his sleepy eyes fixed
upon the pale youth—“In the name of his Blessed Majesty! Octavius,
my dear—”

“Eight—nine—ten—” muttered Octavius, surveying a little pile of gold
coin, which he had placed upon the table. “If he succeeds, I lose. If
he don't, I win. How do you think it will turn out, Captain?”

The individual addressed seemed to be wrapt in deep cogitations for a
moment, and then answered gravely—

“If she was a lady of quality, I could tell you in a minute. In that
case you would lose. Distinct-l-y, sir! But, as she is a peasant girl, I

am induced to think that our friend—that is, John—eh? John! Capital
joke, to call himself John, plain John,—eh?”

“R-e-g, Reg,” muttered the decorous citizen, writing with the end of
his finger, moistened with beer, upon the white table,—“I,—Regi,—
N-A-L-D-,—nald,—Reginald!”

As though he had accomplished some problem of incalculable intricacy,
the good citizen looked around with a glance of triumph, and pointed to
the name, inscribed upon the smooth board in characters—not of light—
but of beer.

“When did you get a letter from the old boy?” observed Captain
Grosby.

“Yesterday. Mysterious—ugh! very mysterious—” responded Anthony.
Diving his hand into a side-pocket, he drew forth a letter cumbered
by a large seal, and holding it near the light, read from its pages in
an under-tone—“`I charge you, have a care over my—my son—and let no
effort be spared to further the great object of his journey to Phil—Philadel—'
very mysterious!”

“And if he succeeds, I win the guineas,” said Mr. Octavius, making an
earnest effort to draw a cloud of smoke from a cold pipe.—“Why does
he stay? Ha, ha—it must be a delicious interview. The dear little girl
listens to the insinuating stranger, and—”

“Speakin' o' girls reminds me of politics,” remarked the Merchant,
arranging himself in a position of commanding gravity, with one limb
crossed over the other, and his chin very near his knee, while his thumbs
and the ends of his fingers were placed together, with due solemnity—
“Do you think, Captain, that this Continental Congress will ever come to
much? Great talk in the State-house yard, in these days, about the rights
of the Colonies, and—snuff the candle, if I may trouble you, Octavius—
ministerial oppression. Many words, a great many words; and, if I may
use so bold a phrase, an unlimited Ocean of—of—small-talk.”

“Sir. Si-r-r! The name of his blessed Majesty King George is—”

The Captain inhaled an immense volume of smoke, and paid his devotions
to the beer mug. It was quite a pleasure to hear him conclude his
remarkable sentiment:

“That is my opinion, Sir. It is.”

“Exactly my own way of thinking,” said Anthony. “I have always
held those opinions.”

Octavius said nothing, but continued to count his guineas.

“Eh—bye the bye, when do you expect John to leave the city?”—the
Captain turned his leaden eyes toward the citizen.

“Some months will elapse—” began the Merchant, performing a
solemn pantomime with his thumb and fingers, when his words were suddenly
interrupted by an alarming clamor at the tavern door.

“Do you hear, Tadkins? Hello—the fellow's asleep—suppose

you let him in, Octavy, my dear,” said the Captain, in a mild, loving
way.

“It's very easy to say, Let him in; but when a man has deposited some
two or three bottles of wine within his waistcoat, with a superstructure
of beer and tobacco smoke, it becomes a question how—a man—can
walk—”

Octavius rose to his feet, however, and reached the door, after several
erratic movements to the right and left. No sooner had he removed the
wooden bar, than the latch was lifted, and a figure rushed over the thresh-old
and moved with hasty strides toward the table.

“Hello! Why, you're white as a sheet! Rather an unpleasant object!”
cried the Captain, starting in his chair. “You don't call it a decent thing,
to plunge in upon us, looking like a corpse, do you?”

“What's the matter?” drawled Anthony, gazing vacantly into the face
of the intruder.

It was Jacopo, no longer red and blooming in the cheeks, but pale as a
dead man. His slender limbs trembled under the weight of his rotund
paunch, as he stood by the table, his small black eyes peering steadily
into the lean visage of the merchant. Even his nose, which we have
seen blooming and blushing like a fire coal about to kindle into a blaze,
was colorless now.

“Jacopo! How goes it, man?” Octavius staggered to his side—
“Where's John?—I'm ready—” he leaned for support upon the table,
while his face was invested with the apathy of the last degree of drunkenness—“How's
your health, my boy? Favor this company with a song.”

And then the bewildered Octavius favored the company with a touching
couplet from a pathetic ballad of the olden time:

“Octavy, my love,” politely interfered Captain Grosby—“Hold your
jaw.”

Jacopo did not speak a word in answer. Panting for breath, he looked
silently into the faces of the boon companions, while his features were
pallid with a blank terror.

Anthony dashed his mug upon the table, and staggered to his feet.
“Where's your master?” he cried, as he beheld the terror-stricken face
of Jacopo.

“The fact is, my friends, I'm a little out o' breath—” Jacopo spoke
very slowly, looking over his shoulder toward the door, with the glance
of a nervous man, who fancies that he is pursued by an Apparition. “But
you surely are jesting—you do not mean to say that my Lor—(that is,
John)—is not here?”

A dead silence ensued. The terror imprinted on the face of Jacopo
impressed the boon companions with an involuntary awe. The Captain
rose, and the three gathered around the companion of Reginald
Lyndulfe.

“What's this! Where is he? Your face would frighten the devil himself.
Out with it at once—” and the burly officer shook Jacopo roughly
by the shoulder.

“Out with it, or I won't answer for your health, by —!”

“Has he come yet?” faltered Jacopo, sinking into a chair with a grotesque
sigh, which resembled a snore. “Corpi di bacco! This is very
singular—” he grasped a wine-bottle, and inserted the neck in his capacious
mouth. “A-a-h! I am very chilly. They produce such cold
weather in this new country—”

“Would you be so good as to speak?” thundered the Captain,—when
suddenly a footstep was heard, and a form, crossing the threshold, came
rapidly through the shadows toward the table.

Every eye was turned with the same movement toward the face of the
new-comer. Not a word was spoken, and the breathless silence deepened
the feeling of terror which had been communicated to the revellers by the
broken words of Jacopo.

Reginald Lyndulfe stood disclosed in the light—silent—motionless—
all color banished from his face—his gray surtout thrown back on his
shoulders, with the gay apparel which it had concealed, covered with mud,
and torn in many places. His entire appearance was wild and haggard. In
silence he surveyed every visage, his blue eye discolored by injected blood,
while his hair hung in damp flakes about his forehead, and his compressed
lips, no longer red with youth and passion, wore the color of
bluish clay.

After this silent gaze, he flung himself into a seat, or rather sank into
the chair, with the manner of one who has been exhausted by hours of
fatigue and suffering. Still, no one broke the silence; the boon companions
cast stealthy glances into each other's faces, and then as stealthily
surveyed the faces of Jacopo and his master.

Reginald dashed his cap upon the table, and with his colorless hand
wiped the moisture from his forehead.

“Jacopo—” he said, in a hoarse voice, that was scarcely audible—
“Have you any brandy?”

These words may provoke a smile, but there was nothing like pleasantry
upon the countenance of those who surveyed the haggard face of
the young man. With a hand that trembled visibly, Jacopo reached the
bottle which was labelled “Brandy,” and placed a capacious glass goblet
before his master.

Reginald's hand also trembled as he grasped the bottle, and held it over
the goblet until it contained at least one half a pint of that inspiring poison,

which cankers the blood with its peculiar leprosy, and degrades the man
into a demon.

He raised the goblet, and did not set it down until every drop of the
burning liquid had passed his lips.

The surprise, the terror of the company now manifested itself in words.

“Zounds! An old trooper like me couldn't stand such a dose as that,
and I've swallowed the stuff these twenty years. You, my boy, you are
remarkable for your abstinence. I never saw you so much as half-drunk
or quarter-drunk, in all the time I've known you. Zounds! Enough to
kill the devil!”

“A half a pint!” ejaculated Anthony—“and without water!”

“I couldn't drink it if you were to cut me up into coach-whips!” was
the somewhat mysterious remark of Octavius.

Jacopo gazed in silence into the face of his Master. The eyes were
still blood-shotten, the lips livid, the cheek colorless. The brandy did
not seem to have the least effect upon him; at all events its effects were
not in the most remote degree perceptible.

A painful silence ensued.

Reginald held forth the goblet once more, with an emphatic gesture—
“More brandy!” he whispered.

Jacopo lifted the bottle, and paused when the goblet was half-filled, the
bright red liquid shining through the clear glass.

“Go on—” said his master, in that almost inaudible tone.

Again he raised the glass, and drained it to the last drop.

The surprise and anxiety of the company may be imagined. Every
man sank back in his seat, and the same ejaculation quivered from
every lip.

Yet still Reginald sat before them, his cadaverous face, lighted by the
candle, as pale and ghastly as ever. His hands, which were laid upon
his knees, trembled as with an ague-chill; with blood-shot eyes, and
compressed lips, and pallid cheeks, he gazed vacantly into the faces of
the spectators.

“It is very strange—” he said, in that hoarse whisper—“The brandy
has not the least effect upon me. I believe that I am about to be taken
ill with some mortal disease.”

At once the tongues of the spectators were unloosed.

“What is the matter?” cried Anthony.

“There's something dreadful happened to you—” said the Captain.

“The girl—”

At that word, uttered by the slender Octavius, who laid his hand upon
his guineas, a shudder agitated the face of the young man.

“Pshaw—I had quite forgotten our wager. Have not seen her to-night
— she did not keep her appointment — she — she — ha, ha — has
jilted me.”

With his eye fixed sternly upon the astonished face of Jacopo, he
slowly uttered these words, with a miserable attempt to force a smile.

“The guineas are yours!”

“Jacopo, I wish to say a word to you,” whispered Reginald, and he
led the way toward the door, where the light of the breaking day fell upon
their haggard faces.

“Go at once to Mr. Hopkins's house,—secure the package on my desk
—and saddle two of the best horses in his stables. Then you will cross
the river, and wait for me in the woods at Cooper's Point. I will join
you there, within a half-hour.”

“Two of the best horses—how shall I get them over the river?”—
there was a ludicrous astonishment in Jacopo's face.

“There is a ferry from the foot of High street, or you can get the old
Fisherman at Mulberry street wharf to take them over in his flat-boat.
But they must be over the river in a half an hour, or—”

His face became suddenly agitated.

“Jacopo—” he continued, abruptly changing the subject—“You left
the farm-house after I did. Was there any thing like surprise at my sudden
departure?”

Jacopo answered in a whisper, hoarse and thick with emotion—“I was
aroused from my sleep by a loud outcry. I hurried from my room, and
found that the noise proceeded from her chamber—”

“Madeline—” Reginald shuddered, as he whispered the name.

“There was a throng of neighbors gathered there, and as I crossed the
threshold, I saw old Peter standing in their midst, pointing to the floor.
I pressed through the crowd, looking for you, and—”

“Go on—go on—”

“I did not see your face, but your name was spoken every moment, by
the crowd. And—”

“Madeline?” gasped Reginald, grasping his servant by the wrists.

“She was not there—”

Reginald tottered backward, and would have fallen, had not the arm of
Jacopo held him firmly against the posts of the door.

“Go on—” and Reginald cast a beseeching glance in the face of Jacopo,
which reflected the ghastliness of his own features—“speak it at once.
Madeline—was not—there—”

“She had left the farm-house, but Old Peter, who was wonderfully agitated,
pointed to the floor, and called the attention of the neighbors to the
stain of blood, which was visible at his feet. Nay, my Lord, the torch-light
disclosed not only a stain, but a pool of blood—” Reginald's features
became blank with vague horror.

“A pool of blood * * * and Madeline gone—There has been foul play
* * * * but go at once, Jacopo, and obey my commands. Not a word—”

“But, my Lord, you are not well—”

“Fool! Do you hesitate? Let the horses be ready in Cooper's woods,
and—” he glanced over Jacopo's shoulder, towards the table—“Hopkins
will not suspect—a vessel sails from New York to-morrow—go, I say,
and do not fail, for there is more than life at stake—”

He pushed Jacopo through the door, and hurried toward the table. The
faces of the boon companions were turned toward his visage, as he sank
into a seat. Not a word was spoken, but it was evident that they waited
for an explanation of all this mystery, from the lips of Reginald.

“Hopkins, I was about to remark—” the Merchant started up in his
chair—“that is to say, Octavius—” the leaden-eyed reveller raised his
head from his hands—“in fact, Captain—”

Turning from one to the other of the boon companions, and exciting
the earnest attention of every one by his address, Reginald slowly continued—

“Have you such a thing as a well-flavored Havanna cigar?” He accompanied
these remarkable words with a hearty burst of laughter.

There could not have been a more ludicrous surprise, had he asked the
gallant Captain to pull a church steeple from his pocket, or desired the
Merchant to take a merchant vessel of three hundred tons from the crown
of his cocked hat.

“He is drunk,” was the muttered ejaculation of the young gentleman.

“Crazy!” thought Mr. Hopkins.

“Had some love-scene with the girl—” was the reflection of the Captain,
who was a man of the world, and somewhat dangerous to the sex,
withal.

However, the Merchant drew from his pocket a small parcel, carefully
wrapped in yellow tea-paper.

“A sample of the best Havanna—received 'em yesterday from Cuba—”
and he handed Reginald a cigar, observing at the same time, in an under-tone—“White
as a sheet, by George!”

Reginald lighted the cigar, and placing his feet upon the table, soon encircled
his face with a fragrant cloud.

“The fact is, gentlemen,” he exclaimed, as though he had been
silently elaborating some previous subject of discussion—“The Colonies
will not dare to do it. They will talk, but they dare not act—”

And in a moment the company were involved in the mazes of a political
discussion, which, as the hour was daybreak, and three of their number
stupid with the bottle and pipe, and the fourth not far from crazy,
was, in every point of view, a remarkable event.

“They may dress themselves as Injins, and attack whole cargoes of
tea, but when it comes to musket and bayonet—B-a-h!—” the Captain
was decided in his opinions. There was a profundity in his “B-a-h!”

“The fact is, gentlemen, to look at the subject philosophically, every
thing is degenerated in this country. Instead of a Church Establishment,

they have conventicles of drab-coated Quakers. Instead of a King, a mob
—and in place of law, order and Christianity, they have a Continental
Congress. The general degeneracy, gentlemen, does not end here. It
extends from the political to the alimentary and convivial world. The
roast beef is tough, and the brandy worse than medicine—”

“I attended some of their big talks, at Carpenter's Hall, in September
last,” said the acute Hopkins—“There were some fiery speeches, but
`Brag is a good dog,' and so forth, as the proverb has it.”

“The idea that any man would be so ridiculous as to—” the young
man possibly may have meant to advance some profound truth, or elaborate
some new theory in political philosophy, but he concluded with
breaking his pipe, and calling on the Captain for a song.

While the discussion continued, Reginald smoked in silence, which was
only broken by an occasional word, evidently uttered with the intention
of prolonging the argument. There was no change in the unnatural
pallor of his face; even the cigar, mild and peaceful in its effects, failed to
dispel the sullen gloom which clouded his features.

“There is no doubt whatever, that when the King is fully informed of
the proceedings of the Continental Congress,” gravely exclaimed the
Merchant, “and put in possession of all the facts connected with this
matter, he will exclaim, with an indignation truly royal—Zounds!
Captain, my pipe has gone out, and I've no paper to light it again!”

The sedate Hopkins surveyed his pipe with an expression of indescribable
despair, as he placed these mysterious words in the mouth of his
dread Majesty, King George.

“I must confess that your figure is by no means lucid,” the Captain
remarked, with a profundity altogether significant of beer and tobacco—
“What in the d—l has King George and the Continental Congress to
do with a pipe?”

“Bah! Captain, this pipe, at which I have been puffing hopelessly
for the last minute, is cold as an icicle. Have you an old newspaper
about you—it's so unpleasant to light one's pipe at a reeking tallow-candle—”

“Not an old newspaper, but a new one. I received it from a friend today,
who came over by the last ship. Just tear a strip off the border;
don't spoil the reading. It must last me for the next three months.”

The Captain flung the paper on the table, and Hopkins began, with
great care, to peel a narrow strip from its border, muttering meanwhile—

“British Gazette and Chronicle. `Novem-b-er—eleventh—Hello!
What is this? `Last dying speech and confession of Greeley, the notorious
Pirate hung on Tyburn,—”'

The Merchant dropped his pipe, and with his eye rivetted by the dingy
type of the London paper, perused the paragraph which arrested his attention,
with undisguised, but by no means sober interest. His lips moved

unceasingly in a ridiculous grimace, and his eyes grew idiotic, in a
fixed stare.

“What's the matter?” cried the Captain, taking his huge boot from
the table, and bending forward with sudden attention—“Has his blessed
Majesty taken cold, or is—the—Church threatened with an attack of—”
the redoubtable Captain hesitated for a word, but quietly added, after a
moment—“epilepsy?”

“Just read me a bit of fresh Court news, will you?” suggested Octavius.

Hopkins, however, did not answer, but, growing suddenly pale, continued
absorbed in the perusal of the paper.

“Reginald, will you have the kindness to read that?” With his finger
placed upon the particular paragraph, he handed the paper across the
table. The young man, absorbed in a revery, did not seem to hear him
at first, but the Merchant, starting up from his seat, held the paper before
his face.

“Read that, if you please—the date of the paper is the same as your
father's letter, but it is plain that he had not seen the `Gazette and
Chronicle' when he wrote to you.”

The agitation of Hopkins excited the attention of the young man, whose
features were clouded by apathetic gloom. Seizing the paper, he cast his
eyes over its columns, examined the date, surveyed the advertisements
and the intelligence from court, the debates in Parliament and the announcements
of the theatre.

“It does not interest me,” he said, with a vague stare—“I see nothing
here—”

“That paragraph,” cried Hopkins in his shrillest tone, while, bending
over the table, his long nose almost touched the face of Reginald.

The young man beheld the paragraph designated by the Merchant,
whose face betrayed such singular emotion.

In silence he read, while the boon companions anxiously marked the
sudden changes of his handsome countenance. The agitation of Reginald
was appalling. He surveyed the paper with the glare of a madman,
crushed it in his hands, and scattered it in fragments on the table.

“Look ye—” he gasped, as he placed his hand on the Merchant's
shoulder—“You will find the object of your search in the valley of the
Wissahikon. Her name is Madeline—she dwells in—”

As though maddened by some memory of this eventful night, he turned
hastily away—the half-finished sentence on his lips—and fled with unsteady
steps from the room. As he reached the threshold, the light of the
rising sun streamed over his haggard face, and disclosed his eyes, the
lids inflamed and the balls discolored by injected blood.

“I must away,” he said in a low voice, as his back was to the room
and its occupants, his face to the rising sun—“The horses wait for me at
Cooper's woods, and a ship sails from New York to-morrow—”

He crossed the threshold, and heard his name pronounced by a voice
more hollow and despair-stricken than his own. By the light of the
fresh winter dawn, he beheld a face on which were stamped the indications
of an ineffaceable despair.

“You here—” he cried, and staggered backward in affright,—“Whence
come you?”

And a voice, faint and whispering, gave answer—

“From Wissahikon!”

While these scenes occurred at the Old London Coffee House, in
Philadelphia, events as strange and varied in their interest took place in
the glen of Wissahikon, seven miles away. Let us retrace our steps.