University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
Containing divers matters, and ending with a
live ghost.

It was not long before I was able to
leave my chamber, but the disease,
which left no marks beyond a light
pit upon one check, was succeeded by
languor and lassitude, which kept me
from doing anything for several weeks.
Slowly and by degrees I recovered my
strength, and was able to walk to the
printing-office and back; but the fatigue
of standing at the case was still
too much for me, and I was only able
to make half my usual day's work.

I was told by M`Manus all that had
occurred during my illness. The disease,
in my case, had assumed great
virulence, but the doctor thought I
might recover with careful nursing.
The landlady, fearful that her lodgers
might take alarm and leave the house,
kept the nature of my sickness a secret
from even the servant girls, and
sent her husband to M`Manus, whom
she knew by sight, to come and see
her. She explained to him the case,
and the difficulty which she experienced
of finding a proper nurse.
M`Manus mentioned this at home, and
Amelia, being his wife's next friend,
was informed of the matter. She volunteered
to assist, M`Manus and some
of the compositors agreeing to take
turns at night. Mac, as we called
him, had no misgivings about the disease,
which he had suffered; but his
wife, from a prudent regard for the
younger Mac, trundled herself and the
baby to her sister's, over in New Jersey,
and remained there until after I
had recovered. I was well attended
among them all, and the doctor said
that the careful nursing was of great
service.

When able to visit her, I called at
M`Manus's apartments, and saw Amelia—for
it must be known I had never
visited her in her own rooms, her mother
being an invalid, to whom a stranger's
presence was irksome. I expressed
my grateful sense of her kindness.

“You owe me no thanks,” she said.
“I owe you too much still; not only
the situation which has enabled me to
keep my poor mother from want, but a
loan which you must let me repay you
before long.”

How had she discovered the last? I
looked my astonishment, and she replied
to it.

“Some loose papers lay in your
room,” she said, “and as Mrs. Lemaitre
and I were putting them to rights,
I recognized the handwriting. I saw
then that it was to you I was indebted
for the loan of the money. Ah! if you
could know from what a gulf of horror
and despair your kindness saved me!
Everything that we could spare, and
much that we could not, had been sold
or pledged, and we had no prospect
but starvation or the alms house. I
had kept up my courage till then; but
when the agent threatened to turn us
in the street, I was on the verge of
madness. That money saved the lives
of two. My mother would not have
long lived after the humiliation of public
relief, and I was in that state of
mind that I could not have long survived
her.”

She paused, but I was too much affected
to reply. She went on.

“It was part selfishness which made
me insist on nursing you alone; for I
remained with you as much as possible,
keeping the men, when I could, in
the outer room. During your delirium
you said enough to make me fear to
have your words heard by other ears
than mine. I excepted M`Manus, for
he already knew the terrible secret.”

“I can not tell what—”

“I refer to Peabody's death. Yes!
your ravings, and my poor father's,
told the story.”

“But,” I said, “is it not possible
that we may both be mistaken? May
it not have been a diseased fancy of
your father?”

She shook her head.

“I have thought it all over, day after
day. I have laid awake thinking
of it, night after night. I have striven
to reason myself out of the conviction,
but it is here—here. If you knew all
you would pity him, guilty as he is.
For years he had toiled and struggled,
none more honest, none more sober,
none kinder to his family—toiled and
struggled, never to rise higher than
the berth of second mate. Discontent
grew to be a fatal disease; the fatal
opportunity came; and then—oh! it is
horrible to think of it, but I thank heaven
that he is deprived of reason, for,
if it should be fonnd out—if—”

“No cause for alarm,” I interrupted.
“Even if he did it, which is by no
means certain, there are no human
witnesses.”

“Human!” She shuddered. “If
he should die, and unrepentent! Oh,
my father! my father!” and her feelings
found vent in tears.

“Amelia,” said I, “you cannot tell
what agony of penitence your father
has suffered. It was his very remorse
that caused the change in his life; his
madness comes from that. Depend
upon it, he has repented, and fearfully.”

“Upon my word,” exclaimed Mrs.

M`Manus, who was passing from one
room to another, and stopped for a moment
to regard us, “you two are holding
earnest conference. I wonder what
Joseph Peabody would say.”

Amelia sighed.

“Mr. Brooks,” she said, in a low
voice, “you have given me a brother's
kindness, and I will return you a sister's
confidence. I was engaged to
Captain Peabody's brother Joseph.”

“And he has cast you off on account
of your father's ruin?” I asked bitterly.
“You are well rid of any man so
base.”

“Do not say so, Mr. Brooks. You
wrong him—very much wrong him.
He never cast me off. He implored me
to marry him, and he declared that he
never would consider it other than a
pleasure to support my helpless parents,
and I believed him. Yes! he is
honor and truth, and kindness, and
I—”

“What then? How is it that you
did not accept him?”

“I—ah! I am a murderer's daughter
—the man who murdered his brother
is my father. Could I—dare I marry
him? No! I refused; he does not
know why; he will never know, I
hope. He thinks I am fickle and base;
he scorns me; he hates me; and I—
oh, what is left for me?”

It was useless to attempt consolation
for a grief like her's—a grief over
young hopes, fond passion and maiden
peace, all hoplessly wrecked. I said
but little; what could I say? but with
a sympathizing pressure of the hand
left her.

I walked slowly to Broadway, and
from thence down town, thinking of
Amelia Van Kline and her suffering,
and paying no attention to those on
either side, when I was startled by a
voice at my ear:

“Well, fellow-voyager, is this you
or your shadow?”

I looked up and saw Archbold. I
shook his hand, and asked him when
he had returned to the United States.

“When returned! I haven't been
away. I've just returned from St.
Louis. I've been spending the last
three years in the Indian country—
been among the Arrapahoes, and so on.
I only came from St. Louis last week.
But what makes you so miserable?
Been sick?”

“Yes—but just recovered.”

“Why don't you try the country? Go
out to the mountains, and brace yourself
up.”

“It would be very agreeable, I dare
say, if one had pleasant company.”

“The best of pleasant company—
me. I'm going to Western Virginia
in a week, to look after some land of
mine there. Come along. Know anything
about ores?”

“Yes; something.”

“Well, may be we'll find a gold
mine. At all events, the jaunt will do
you good, and it is the cheapest traveling
in the world. Think of a country
where chickens sell at a New York
shilling per pair, and eggs at five cents
a dozen—a country where there are
deer and black bear, with countless
turkeys—the land of Canaan, flowing
with milk and honey—the land of
mountains and forests, and waterfalls,
my boy. Come along.”

“You tempt me.”

“That's my aim; I want company;
come with me to Delmonico's. We'll
dine together, and talk the matter
over.”

There was no resisting his pressing

and to Delmonico's we went. My companion
got at once into the mysteries
of the carte, and was only fit to discuss
proper dishes. When we had made
our selections, he broke out again:

“You should have been with me at
St. Louis Who do you think I met
there? Can't say, of course. Do you
recollect the story I told you once of
my adventures in northern Mexico,
and the strange Englishman with the
savages?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I saw him. He had escaped
from them at last, and got to St. Louis.”

“What was his name?”

“I never asked him. I heard some
one call him Doctor Bull. He came
from the southwest of England, and is
going home in two or three months,
as soon as his drafts come back, he
says.”

“Southwestern part of England!
why that is my native place. At least
I was born there. Did he name the
county?”

“Yes, but I forget. I remember the
county town, the court-house as we
say in Virginia. Puttenham he called
it.”

“That's my town; but I remember
no Dr. Bull.”

“Oh, that's the town. He invited
me to spend some time at his place
there; and if I go over in two or three
months, as I may, I'll run down to
him.”

“See here,” said I, feeling quizzical,
“don't be too sure you will. I know
the name of every landholder in that
county, of any position, though I don't
know them personally, and I—well,
are you sure your friend isn't a tinker?”

“Pshaw!”

“Because, the only Bull I know is
Ralph Bull, and he is in the tin-repairing
line.”

“Poh! nonsense! the Doctor is a
gentleman, by three descents, at least.
It breaks out all over him. He's blood
to the bone, as the jockeys say. But
what makes you stare that way?
Heavens! man, are you ill?”

I was looking at another table.
There sat, bolt upright, looking us
both straight in the face, clearly, unmistakably
alive, Captain Peabody, formerly
master of the good ship Mary
Perkins.