A Protegee of Jack Hamlin's, and Other Stories

Relieved, she turned quickly to join her aunt, but a hand was laid gently upon her shoulder. It was Brother Seabright, who had just stepped from the platform. The congregation, knowing her to be the niece of the hysteric woman, passed out without disturbing them.

“You have, indeed, improved your gift, Sister Cecilia,” he said gravely. “You must have practiced much.”

“Yes—that is, no!—only a little,” stammered Cissy.

“But, excuse me, I must look after auntie,” she added, drawing timidly away.

“Your aunt is better, and has gone on with Sister Shadwell. She is not in need of your help, and really would do better without you just now. I shall see her myself presently.”

“But YOU made her sick already,” said Cissy, with a sudden, half-nervous audacity. “You even frightened ME.”

“Frightened you?” repeated Seabright, looking at her quickly.

“Yes,” said Cissy, meeting his gaze with brown, truthful eyes. “Yes, when you—when you—made those faces. I like to hear you talk, but”—she stopped.

Brother Seabright’s rare smile again lightened his face. But it seemed sadder than when she had first seen it.

“Then you have been practicing again at the Mission?” he said quietly; “and you still prefer it?”

“Yes,” said Cissy. She wanted to appear as loyal to the Mission in Brother Seabright’s presence as she was faithful to West Woodlands in Mr. Braggs’s. She had no idea that this was dangerously near to coquetry. So she said a little archly, “I don’t see why YOU don’t like the Mission. You’re a missionary yourself. The old padres came here to spread the Word. So do you.”

“But not in that way,” he said curtly. “I’ve seen enough of them when I was knocking round the world a seafaring man and a sinner. I knew them—receivers of the ill-gotten gains of adventurers, fools, and scoundrels. I knew them—enriched by the spoils of persecution and oppression; gathering under their walls outlaws and fugitives from justice, and flinging an indulgence here and an absolution there, as they were paid for it. Don’t talk to me of THEM—I know them.”

They were passing out of the chapel together, and he made an impatient gesture as if dismissing the subject. Accustomed though she was to the sweeping criticism of her Catholic friends by her West Woodlands associates, she was nevertheless hurt by his brusqueness. She dropped a little behind, and they separated at the porch. Notwithstanding her anxiety to see her aunt, she felt she could not now go to Deacon Shadwell’s without seeming to follow him—and after he had assured her that her help was not required! She turned aside and made her way slowly towards her home.

There she found that her aunt had not returned, gathering from her uncle that she was recovering from a fit of “high strikes” (hysterics), and would be better alone. Whether he underrated her complaint, or had a consciousness of his masculine helplessness in such disorders, he evidently made light of it. And when Cissy, afterwards, a little ashamed that she had allowed her momentary pique against Brother Seabright to stand in the way of her duty, determined to go to her aunt, instead of returning to the chapel that evening, he did not oppose it. She learned also that Mr. Braggs had called in the morning, but, finding that her aunt Vashti was at chapel, he had followed her there, intending to return with her. But he had not been seen since the service, and had evidently returned to the Mission.

But when she reached Deacon Shadwell’s house she was received by Mrs. Shadwell only. Her aunt, said that lady, was physically better, but Brother Seabright had left “partkler word” that she was to see nobody. It was an extraordinary case of “findin’ the Lord,” the like of which had never been known before in West Woodlands, and she (Cissy) would yet be proud of one of her “fammerly being speshally selected for grace.” But the “workin’s o’ salvation was not to be finicked away on worldly things or even the affections of the flesh;” and if Cissy really loved her aunt, “she wouldn’t interfere with her while she was, so to speak, still on the mourners’ bench, wrastlin’ with the Sperret in their back sittin’-room.” But she might wait until Brother Seabright’s return from evening chapel after service.

Cissy waited. Nine o’clock came, but Brother Seabright did not return. Then a small but inconsequent dignity took possession of her, and she slightly tossed her long curls from her shoulders. She was not going to wait for any man’s permission to see her own aunt. If auntie did not want to see her, that was enough. She could go home alone. She didn’t want any one to go with her.

Lifted and sustained by these lofty considerations, with an erect head and slightly ruffled mane, well enwrapped in a becoming white merino “cloud,” the young girl stepped out on her homeward journey. She had certainly enough to occupy her mind and, perhaps, justify her independence. To have a suitor for her hand in the person of the superior and wealthy Mr. Braggs,—for that was what his visit that morning to West Woodlands meant,—and to be personally complimented on her improvement by the famous Brother Seabright, all within twelve hours, was something to be proud of, even although it was mitigated by her aunt’s illness, her suitor’s abrupt departure, and Brother Seabright’s momentary coldness and impatience. Oddly enough, this last and apparently trivial circumstance occupied her thoughts more than the others. She found herself looking out for him in the windings of the moonlit road, and when, at last, she reached the turning towards the little wood and chapel, her small feet unconsciously lingered until she felt herself blushing under her fleecy “cloud.” She looked down the lane. From the point where she was standing the lights of the chapel should have been plainly visible; but now all was dark. It was nearly ten o’clock, and he must have gone home by another road. Then a spirit of adventure seized her. She had the key of the chapel in her pocket. She remembered she had left a small black Spanish fan—a former gift of Mr. Braggs lying on the harmonium. She would go and bring it away, and satisfy herself that Brother Seabright was not there still. It was but a step, and in the clear moonlight.

The lane wound before her like a silver stream, except where it was interrupted and bridged over by jagged black shadows. The chapel itself was black, the clustering trees around it were black also; the porch seemed to cover an inky well of shadow; the windows were rayless and dead, and in the chancel one still left open showed a yawning vault of obscurity within. Nevertheless, she opened the door softly, glided into the dark depths, and made her way to the harmonium. But here the sound of footsteps without startled her; she glanced hurriedly through the open window, and saw the figure of Elisha Braggs suddenly revealed in the moonlight as he crossed the path behind the chapel. He was closely followed by two peons, whom she recognized as his servants at the Mission, and they each carried a pickaxe. From their manner it was evident that they had no suspicion of her presence in the chapel. But they had stopped and were listening. Her heart beat quickly; with a sudden instinct she ran and bolted the door. But it was evidently another intruder they were watching, for she presently saw Brother Seabright quietly cross the lane and approach the chapel. The three men had disappeared; but there was a sudden shout, the sound of scuffling, the deep voice of Brother Seabright saying, “Back, there, will you! Hands off!” and a pause. She could see nothing; she listened in every pulse. Then the voice of Brother Seabright arose again quite clearly, slowly, and as deliberately as if it had risen from the platform in the chapel.

“Lish Barker! I thought as much! Lish Barker, first mate of the Tamalpais, who was said to have gone down with a boat’s crew and the ship’s treasure after she struck. I THOUGHT I knew that face today.”

“Yes,” said the voice of him whom she had known as Elisha Braggs,—“yes, and I knew YOUR face, Jim Seabright, ex-whaler, slaver, pirate, and bo’s’n of the Highflyer, marooned in the South Pacific, where you found the Lord—ha! ha!—and became the psalm-singing, converted American sailor preacher!”

“I am not ashamed before men of my past, which every one knows,” returned Seabright slowly. “But what of YOURS, Elisha Barker—YOURS that has made you sham death itself to hide it from them? What of YOURS—spent in the sloth of your ill-gotten gains! Turn, sinner, turn! Turn, Elisha Braggs, while there is yet time!”

“Belay there, Brother Seabright; we’re not INSIDE your gospel-shop just now! Keep your palaver for those that need it. Let me pass, before I have to teach you that you haven’t to deal with a gang of hysterical old women to-night.”

“But not until you know that one of those women,—Vashti White,—by God’s grace converted of her sins, has confessed her secret and yours, Elisha Barker! Yes! She has told me how her sister’s husband—the father of the young girl you are trying to lure away—helped you off that night with your booty, took his miserable reward and lived and died in exile with the rest of your wretched crew,—afraid to return to his home and country—whilst you—shameless and impenitent—lived in slothful ease at the Mission!”

“Liar! Let me pass!”

“Not until I know your purpose here to-night.”

“Then take the consequences! Here, Pedro! Ramon! Seize him. Tie him head and heels together, and toss him in the bush!”

The sound of scuffling recommenced. The struggle seemed fierce and long, with no breath wasted in useless outcry. Then there was a bright flash, a muffled report, and the stinging and fire of gunpowder at the window.

Transfixed with fear, Cissy cast a despairing glance around her. Ah, the bell-rope! In another instant she had grasped it frantically in her hands.

All the fear, indignation, horror, sympathy, and wild appeal for help that had arisen helplessly in her throat and yet remained unuttered, now seemed to thrill through her fingers and the tightened rope, and broke into frantic voice in the clanging metal above her. The whole chapel, the whole woodland, the clear, moonlit sky above was filled with its alarming accents. It shrieked, implored, protested, summoned, and threatened, in one ceaseless outcry, seeming to roll over and over—as, indeed, it did—in leaps and bounds that shook the belfry. Never before, even in the blows of the striking surges, had the bell of the Tamalpais clamored like that! Once she heard above the turmoil the shaking of the door against the bolt that still held firmly; once she thought she heard Seabright’s voice calling to her; once she thought she smelled the strong smoke of burning grass. But she kept on, until the window was suddenly darkened by a figure, and Brother Seabright, leaping in, caught her in his arms as she was reeling fainting, but still clinging to the rope. But his strong presence and some powerful magnetism in his touch restored her.

“You have heard all!” he said.

“Yes.”

“Then for your aunt’s sake, for your dead father’s sake, FORGET all! That wretched man has fled with his wounded hirelings—let his sin go with him. But the village is alarmed—the brethren may be here any moment! Neither question nor deny what I shall tell them. Fear nothing. God will forgive the silence that leaves the vengeance to His hands alone!” Voices and footsteps were heard approaching the chapel. Brother Seabright significantly pressed her hand and strode towards the door. Deacon Shadwell was first to enter.

“You here—Brother Seabright! What has happened?”

“God be praised!” said Brother Seabright cheerfully, “nothing of consequence! The danger is over! Yet, but for the courage and presence of mind of Sister Appleby a serious evil might have been done.” He paused, and with another voice turned half-interrogatively towards her. “Some children, or a passing tramp, had carelessly thrown matches in the underbrush, and they were ignited beside the chapel. Sister Appleby, chancing to return here for”—

“For my fan,” said Cissy with a timid truthfulness of accent.

“Found herself unable to cope with it, and it occurred to her to give the alarm you heard. I happened to be passing and was first to respond. Happily the flames had made but little headway, and were quickly beaten down. It is all over now. But let us hope that the speedy clearing out of the underbrush and the opening of the woods around the chapel will prevent any recurrence of the alarm of to-night.”

That the lesson thus reiterated by Brother Seabright was effective, the following extract, from the columns of the “Whale Point Gazette,” may not only be offered as evidence, but may even give the cautious reader further light on the episode itself:—

STRANGE DISCOVERY AT WEST WOODLANDS.—THE TAMALPAIS MYSTERY AGAIN.

The improvements in the clearing around the Sidon Chapel at West Woodlands, undertaken by the Rev. James Seabright, have disclosed another link in the mystery which surrounded the loss of the Tamalpais some years ago at Whale Mouth Point. It will be remembered that the boat containing Adams & Co.‘s treasure, the Tamalpais’ first officer, and a crew of four men was lost on the rocks shortly after leaving the ill-fated vessel. None of the bodies were ever recovered, and the treasure itself completely baffled the search of divers and salvers. A lidless box bearing the mark of Adams & Co., of the kind in which their treasure was usually shipped, was yesterday found in the woods behind the chapel, half buried in brush, bark, and windfalls. There were no other indications, except the traces of a camp-fire at some remote period, probably long before the building of the chapel. But how and when the box was transported to the upland, and by whose agency, still remains a matter of conjecture. Our reporter who visited the Rev. Mr. Seabright, who has lately accepted the regular ministry of the chapel, was offered every facility for information, but it was evident that the early settlers who were cognizant of the fact—if there were any—are either dead or have left the vicinity.

THE HOME-COMING OF JIM WILKES

I

For many minutes there had been no sound but the monotonous drumming of the rain on the roof of the coach, the swishing of wheels through the gravelly mud, and the momentary clatter of hoofs upon some rocky outcrop in the road. Conversation had ceased; the light-hearted young editor in the front seat, more than suspected of dangerous levity, had relapsed into silence since the heavy man in the middle seat had taken to regarding the ceiling with ostentatious resignation, and the thin female beside him had averted her respectable bonnet. An occasional lurch of the coach brought down a fringe of raindrops from its eaves that filmed the windows and shut out the sodden prospect already darkening into night. There had been a momentary relief in their hurried dash through Summit Springs, and the spectacle of certain newly arrived County Delegates crowding the veranda of its one hotel; but that was now three miles behind. The young editor’s sole resource was to occasionally steal a glance at the face of the one passenger who seemed to be in sympathy with him, but who was too far away for easy conversation. It was the half-amused, half-perplexed face of a young man who had been for some time regarding him from a remote corner of the coach with an odd mingling of admiring yet cogitating interest, which, however, had never extended to any further encouragement than a faint sad smile. Even this at last faded out in the growing darkness; the powerful coach lamps on either side that flashed on the wayside objects gave no light to the interior. Everybody was slowly falling asleep. Suddenly everybody woke up to find that the coach was apparently standing still! When it had stopped no one knew! The young editor lowered his window. The coach lamp on that side was missing, but nothing was to be seen. In the distance there appeared to be a faint splashing.

“Well,” called out an impatient voice from the box above; “what do you make it?” It was the authoritative accents of Yuba Bill, the driver, and everybody listened eagerly for the reply.

It came faintly from the distance and the splashing. “Almost four feet here, and deepening as you go.”

“Dead water?”

“No—back water from the Fork.”

There was a general movement towards the doors and windows. The splashing came nearer. Then a light flashed on the trees, the windows, and—two feet of yellow water peacefully flowing beneath them! The thin female gave a slight scream.

“There’s no danger,” said the Expressman, now wading towards them with the coach lamp in his hand. “But we’ll have to pull round out of it and go back to the Springs. There’s no getting past this break to-night.”

“Why didn’t you let us know this before,” said the heavy man indignantly from the window.

“Jim,” said the driver with that slow deliberation which instantly enforced complete attention.

“Yes, Bill.”

“Have you got a spare copy of that reg’lar bulletin that the Stage Kempany issoos every ten minutes to each passenger to tell ‘em where we are, how far it is to the next place, and wots the state o’ the weather gin’rally?”

“No!” said the Expressman grimly, as he climbed to the box, “there’s not one left. Why?”

“Cos the Emperor of Chiny’s inside wantin’ one! Hoop! Keep your seats down there! G’lang!” the whip cracked, there was a desperate splashing, a backward and forward jolting of the coach, the glistening wet flanks and tossing heads of the leaders seen for a moment opposite the windows, a sickening swirl of the whole body of the vehicle as if parting from its axles, a long straight dragging pull, and—presently the welcome sound of hoofs once more beating the firmer ground.

“Hi! Hold up—driver!”

It was the editor’s quiet friend who was leaning from the window.

“Isn’t Wilkes’s ranch just off here?”

“Yes, half a mile along the ridge, I reckon,” returned the driver shortly.

“Well, if you’re not going on to-night, I’d get off and stop there.”

“I reckon your head’s level, stranger,” said Bill approvingly; “for they’re about chock full at the Springs’ House.”

To descend, the passenger was obliged to pass out by the middle seat and before the young editor. As he did so he cast a shy look on him and, leaning over, said hesitatingly, in a lower voice: “I don’t think you will be able to get in at the Springs Hotel. If—if—you care to come with me to—to—the ranch, I can take care of you.”

The young editor—a man of action—paused for an instant only. Then seizing his bag, he said promptly: “Thank you,” and followed his newly-found friend to the ground. The whip cracked, the coach rolled away.

“You know Wilkes?” he said.

“Ye-ee-s. He’s my father.”

“Ah,” said the editor cheerfully, “then you’re going home?”

“Yes.”

It was quite light in the open, and the stranger, after a moment’s survey of the prospect,—a survey that, however, seemed to be characterized by his previous hesitation,—said: “This way,” crossed the road, and began to follow a quite plain but long disused wagon track along the slope. His manner was still so embarrassed that the young editor, after gayly repeating his thanks for his companion’s thoughtful courtesy, followed him in silence. At the end of ten minutes they had reached some cultivated fields and orchards; the stranger brightened, although still with a preoccupied air, quickened his pace, and then suddenly stopped. When the editor reached his side he was gazing with apparently still greater perplexity upon the level, half obliterated, and blackened foundations of what had been a large farmhouse.

“Why, it’s been burnt down!” he said thoughtfully.

The editor stared at him! Burnt down it certainly had been, but by no means recently. Grasses were already springing up from the charred beams in the cellar, vines were trailing over the fallen chimneys, excavations, already old, had been made among the ruins. “When were you here last?” the editor asked abruptly.

“Five years ago,” said the stranger abstractedly.

“Five years!—and you knew nothing of THIS?”

“No. I was in Tahiti, Australia, Japan, and China all the time.”

“And you never heard from home?”

“No. You see I quo’led with the old man, and ran away.”

“And you didn’t write to tell them you were coming?”

“No.” He hesitated, and then added: “Never thought o’ coming till I saw YOU.”

“Me!”

“Yes; you and—the high water.”

“Do you mean to say,” said the young editor sharply, “that you brought ME—an utter stranger to you—out of that coach to claim the hospitality of a father you had quarreled with—hadn’t seen for five years and didn’t know if he would receive you?”

“Yes,—you see that’s just WHY I did it. You see, I reckoned my chances would be better to see him along with a cheerful, chipper fellow like you. I didn’t, of course, kalkilate on this,” he added, pointing dejectedly to the ruins.

The editor gasped; then a sudden conception of the unrivaled absurdity of the situation flashed upon him,—of his passively following the amiable idiot at his side in order to contemplate, by the falling rain and lonely night, a heap of sodden ruins, while the coach was speeding to Summit Springs and shelter, and, above all, the reason WHY he was invited,—until, putting down his bag, he leaned upon his stick, and laughed until the tears came to his eyes.

At which his companion visibly brightened. “I told you so,” he said cheerfully; “I knew you’d be able to take it—and the old man—in THAT WAY, and that would have fetched him round.”

“For Heaven’s sake! don’t talk any more,” said the editor, wiping his eyes, “but try to remember if you ever had any neighbors about here where we can stay tonight. We can’t walk to Summit Springs, and we can’t camp out on these ruins.”

“There didn’t use to be anybody nearer than the Springs.”

“But that was five years ago, you say,” said the editor impatiently; “and although your father probably moved away after the house burned down, the country’s been thickly settled since then. That field has been lately planted. There must be another house beyond. Let’s follow the trail a little farther.”

They tramped along in silence, this time the editor leading. Presently he stopped. “There’s a house—in there—among the trees,” he said, pointing. “Whose is it?”

The stranger shook his head dubiously. Although apparently unaffected by any sentimental consideration of his father’s misfortune, the spectacle of the blackened ruins of the homestead had evidently shaken his preconceived plans. “It wasn’t there in MY time,” he said musingly.

“But it IS there in OUR time,” responded the editor briskly, “and I propose to go there. From what you have told me of your father—even if his house were still standing—our chances of getting supper and a bed from him would be doubtful! I suppose,” he continued as they moved on together, “you left him in anger—five years ago?”

“Ye-es.”

“Did he say anything as you left?”

“I don’t remember anything particular that he SAID.”

“Well, what did he DO?”

“Shot at me from the window!”

“Ah!” said the young editor softly. Nevertheless they walked on for some time in silence. Gradually a white picket fence came into view at right angles with the trail, and a man appeared walking leisurely along what seemed to be the regularly traveled road, beside it. The editor, who had taken matters in his own hands, without speaking to his companion, ran quickly forward and accosted the stranger, briefly stating that he had left the stage-coach with a companion, because it was stopped by high water, and asked, without entering into further details, to be directed to some place where they could pass the night. The man quite as briefly directed him to the house among the trees, which he said was his own, and then leisurely pursued his way along the road. The young editor ran back to his companion, who had halted in the dripping shadow of a sycamore, and recounted his good fortune.

“I didn’t,” he added, “say anything about your father. You can make inquiries yourself later.”

“I reckon there won’t be much need of that,” returned his companion. “You didn’t take much note o’ that man, did you?”

“Not much,” said the editor.

“Well, THAT’S MY FATHER, and I reckon that new house must be his.”

II

The young editor was a little startled. The man he had just quitted certainly was not dangerous looking, and yet, remembering what his son had said, there WERE homicidal possibilities. “Look here,” he said quickly, “he’s not there NOW. Why don’t you seize the opportunity to slip into the house, make peace with your mother and sisters, and get them to intercede with your father when he returns?”