THE MEETING.

LITTLE dreaming of the happiness in store for him, Charlie, having gathered in his harvest and husked his corn, now occupied himself in preparing to put a hedge around his mother’s grave.

A hedge. How significant that word to him, reared amid the vales of Lincolnshire! It recalled all the associations of his childhood, and of the sunny spring mornings, when, sitting beneath the shelter of the hedge-rows, he watched the ducks sport in the pools below, while beside him the hens were scratching and burrowing in the warm earth beneath the bank for worms and grubs, and he, a happy, careless boy, was pounding a willow stick on his knee with the handle of his knife, to make the bark slip, for a whistle; listening to the birds in the hedge above him, and watching the mimic waves produced by the wind as it swept over the osiers.

His intention was to surround the little promontory (around whose sides murmur the clear waters of the brook and the majestic elm that shadows it, whose pendent branches, with their extremities, approached within a few feet of the grave-stone) with hedge.

Mr. Welch, several years before, had imported plants from England, and also ivy. It was from him he expected to obtain his plants—“quicks” Charlie called them—for he was no novice in hedging. The ivy he purposed to plant at the roots of the great elm.

This occupation had revived all the associations of his boyhood, and fond recollections of other days, often bringing tears to his eyes.

“A beautiful land is England,” said he, as he wiped the sweat from his brow and rested upon his spade; “and those sweet spots in the fens I shall never forget; but this is sweeter, for it is my own. What I do here, I do for myself, my wife, and little one.”

That evening, as he sat with the babe in his lap, while his wife was clearing off the supper table, he said to her, “Mary, it don’t seem to look, or to be, just right that I should have a grave-stone for my mother, and none for my father, brother, and sister.”

“But they are not buried here. You wouldn’t wish to put stones where there are no bodies.”

“But I might have something. I’ve seen in the churchyards at home monuments with the names of people on them who were not buried under them, but had died at sea, or been killed in battle, as father was. I might do that.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I think I will; and the very next time the schooner goes to Boston, when I send for my quicks and ivy, I’ll inquire of Mr. Welch about it.”

Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of John Rhines, with a letter in his hand.

“Just give me that baby, and read this.”

“If ever I was glad of anything in my life, I am of this,” said Charlie, when he had read the letter; “not on our account altogether, but Captain Brown’s, he was just starting in life, and there were so many looking at him; and how handsomely he speaks of Walter and little Ned!”

“Ain’t it great?”

“Yes; she’s paid for herself with the freight she carried out.”

“I know it; and the back freight is all clear gain. There’s no loss, except the main boom and a boat.”

“I’ll build another boat. I’ve got the stuff in the ship-yard, all seasoned. The boom won’t be much; he can buy the stick, and Danforth Eaton can make it. What did your father say? He was a long time making up his mind whether it would do to trust him with a vessel or not, and I know he’s been very anxious, though he said nothing.”

“Say! I only wish you could have seen him when I brought in the letter. Mother was just going to tie his cue; he glanced over it, jumped up, and cut round the house like a boy of sixteen; made me put the saddle on the mare, and in spite of all mother could do, went over to tell Uncle Isaac, with his hair all flying in the wind. Won’t they have a good time, talking it over?”

“Yes; and I know just what they’ll say.”

“What?”

“They’ll say he’s turned out just as they expected, when it was all you, father, and I could do to get them started to build the vessel for him.”

“Don’t be too confident, Charlie; the old folks know a thing or two; remember the cow trade.”

Charlie blushed, and in order to turn the conversation, remarked, as he looked again at the letter, “It seems he wants some beef and fish to make up his next cargo.”

“Fred has got a lot on hand, just packed; father is going up in the Perseverance to take it up, settle up the voyage, and bring home the money. Have you heard the news, Charlie, Tom Bannister brought?”

“No; what is it?”

“Pete Clash and John Godsoe have turned up.”

“They have?”

“Yes; Tom saw ‘em on board a Guineaman in Havana; they pretended not to know him, but he knew them. Just the place for them. Father says these Guineamen have a long gun in the hold, and mount it when they get outside, and are all pirates in disguise.”

The country, especially around the sea-coast, was now in a prosperous condition. The settlements were pushed back to the head waters of the streams, roads made, townships surveyed, town incorporated, and vessels built; the timber trade assumed vast proportions, and money was abundant, men began to break away from the rigid manners of the primitive times, and ape the style of dress and living that prevailed in England, which they had either seen or heard of.

Great numbers of cattle were raised on the lands newly burnt over. Instead of driving the cattle to Brighton or Cambridge, as at the present day in seaport towns and country villages, they were butchered, and the beef packed at home, shipped to Spain and other countries of Europe, and smuggled into Cuba for the use of the Spanish slavers. Fred had added to his other business that of packing beef, and Uncle Isaac and Joe Griffin bought the cattle for him. He had imported a cooper, by the name of Wallace, from Standish, to make the barrels, who had taken three boys as apprentices, thus increasing the business of the place.

Charlie, who as our readers know, was strongly attached to the cultivation of the soil, had neither engaged in vessel or boat building since the Arthur Brown was launched. John Rhines likewise found plenty of employment upon the home farm, occasionally working in the yard of Reed and Atherton, who came from Massachusetts, and set up ship-building, built vessels, and took them to Massachusetts for sale.

Charlie, Fred, and John intended only to build vessels as they wanted them, and repair old ones, or aid some industrious, enterprising young man, who wanted a vessel.

They were influenced to this line of conduct very much by the opinions of Uncle Isaac, who had a most wonderful power of making people think as he did; one reason of which was, that he never manifested the least assumption, and another, that he always placed matters in such a light that those with whom he conversed seemed to convince themselves.

One day Uncle Isaac and the boys went pigeon shooting together; as they were sitting by the fire after dinner, he said. “Where did that corn come from that Seth Warren carried last vige in the Hard-scrabble?”

“From North Carolina,” replied Fred.

“Yes, and where did that cargo you are grinding now, that’s going into the logging camps, come from?”

“From Baltimore.”

“Do you take in any corn now from round here?”

“When I first began to trade, I used to take in a great deal; but now, except from yourself, Captain Rhines, Ben, Joe Griffin, and one or two more, I don’t get five bushels in a year; but I sell lots to the people round here.”

“It seems to me, when a people get so much taken up with building vessels, fishing, cutting masts and ton timber, to send to England, that they have to go to the southerd to buy corn to export, feed their cattle in the logging swamps, bread their families, and fat their hogs, they are in rather a poor way; that there’s more talk than cider; that they ain’t getting rich so fast as they appear to be; when they raise but little except on burns, never hauling out their dressing, or ploughing the land, but keep going over and over, skimming and skimming, that by and by they will have a very poor set of carcasses left, and that if there should come a war, and all this exportation be stopped, there would be pretty blue times. I don’t pretend to know, but it appears to me that’s about the way things are done round here, and all over the District of Maine.”

“I never thought of that before,” said Charlie.

“Nor I either,” said John.

“It’s just as Uncle Isaac says,” said Fred, “just to a T. When I first began to trade, almost everybody had a few bushels of corn to sell, some a good deal; and I never sold a bushel of corn, or meal, except to fishermen from some other place; if any of our people wanted corn, wheat or barley, they went to their neighbors.”

“I have thought a good deal about it,” said Uncle Isaac, “and I’ve talked the matter over with Captain Rhines and Benjamin; it strikes them pretty much as it does me; they ought to be better judges than me, because they’ve had greater privileges. I helped about the Hard-scrabble and the Casco, because I wanted to start you boys, build up the place, and make business; but it never will do to have the eggs all in one basket, for all to be ship-builders, lumbermen, or fishermen. A ship don’t produce anything; she is herself a product, manned from the land, and victualled from the land; everything comes from the ground; we ourselves were made out of it; there must be farmers to feed the rest. I mean, for the future, to put my money into the land, except I see special reasons for helping somebody.”

When the Hard-scrabble was built, Captain Rhines and Ben rigged her, and made the sails, as also those of the Casco, and the Arthur Brown; but after Reed and Atherton began to build, a rigger and sail-maker came into the place. Charlie Bell built the first pair of cart wheels, that had an iron tire. Uncle Isaac and Captain Rhines for some time had the only wagons; but in a few years, carts and wagons were more common, and a blacksmith from Roxbury, who could do carriage work and make edge tools, bought out Peter Brock.

The meeting between Captain Rhines and Arthur (his boy, as he called him), in Boston, was a most interesting one. The old captain was jubilant that all the owners were more than satisfied, and his own judgment, in respect to the capacity of the young captain, borne out by facts.

Though by no means given to the melting mood, he met his protÉgÉ with moistening eyes. It is not within the province of language to describe the joy that thrilled the breast of Arthur Brown, and shone in every feature, as he put his hand in that of the captain, resulting from the consciousness that he had more than answered the expectations and justified the confidence reposed in him by his own friends and those of his father, especially of Captain Rhines, Charlie, Lion Ben, and the others who had risked their own lives to save his, and, not satisfied with this, had also jeopardized their property, to open before him a path to usefulness and honor.

“Where are the boys?” asked Captain Rhines, after he had talked half an hour with Arthur.

“They started for home in a coaster yesterday. I have shipped them all for the next voyage.”

“Where is Peterson?”

“Gone with them.”

“Walter and little Ned?”

“They went to Salem together after the vessel was discharged; are coming back to-morrow, expecting to go home with you, or whoever came up. Then you’re fully satisfied with me, captain?”

“Satisfied! My dear boy, I should have been satisfied if you had done half as well. There’s not a shipmaster in the country but would be proud of much less than you have done.”

“Mr. Bell and your sons are satisfied?”

“Why, to be sure they are. I don’t know what they could be made of, if they are not.”

“Well,” said Arthur, laying both his hands on the captain’s shoulders, “I have brought home in this vessel that which will afford greater satisfaction to Mr. Bell, yourself and family, than all the money I have made this passage. I have brought home Mr. Bell’s father.”

“You must be jesting, or have been deceived. His father has been in his grave for years.”

“No; he was not killed, as was supposed, but carried a prisoner to France. He has told Eaton and Peterson the whole story of his impressment, just as they say Charlie told it; told his son’s age, looks, and the scar on his face. There’s no mistake—can’t be. You’ll say so when you see him.”

“God ‘a mercy! Well, this is news indeed. But you didn’t mention it in your letter.”

“His father didn’t want me to.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s gone to ride with Mr. Welch. I am to meet him there, and take tea, and then he is coming aboard.”

“I’ll go there to tea. I have a standing invitation. Well, if I ain’t glad! What do you suppose Charlie was about when I came away?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“He was getting ready to put a hedge round the spot where his mother lies; sent up by me to get the plants of Mr. Welch, and wanted me to talk with him about a monument that he wanted to put up to his father’s memory, and a brother and sister that he has heard died in England; and also to get some plans and bring home to him. And now, instead of the monumental plans, he’ll have the man himself.”

[The Mr. Welch referred to here is a wealthy merchant and ship owner, an intimate friend of Captain Rhines, in whose employ he had sailed the greater part of his life. His son James, a young man of singular promise, but broken down by intemperance, was sent by his father to Elm Island in order to get him out of the way of temptation, and restored by the influence of Uncle Isaac.]

“But,” continued Captain Rhines, “the boys will be home before us, will see Charlie, and let the cat out of the bag.”

“No, they won’t; I’ve told them not to.”

The Perseverance had now been away ten days, and Charlie was expecting to receive his “quicks” at her return. He had, in the spring, ploughed the ground intended for his hedge, and planted it with potatoes, to subdue the tough sward. Having dug the potatoes, and spaded in a heavy coating of manure, he was busily engaged (on one of those delightful autumn mornings when the hoar frost is melting from the grass, and dripping from the extremity of the leaves, and the muscles feel that joyous thrill which the season of the year inspires) in levelling the surface with a rake, removing the stones, twigs, and bark that had fallen from the elm. Feeling a hand laid lightly upon his shoulder, he raised his eyes, and looked Walter Griffin full in the face.

“Why, Walter,” he exclaimed, taking both his hands, and struck with the expression of heartfelt joy which pervaded every feature, “how happy you look!”

“I hope so. I’m sure I ought to.”

“He ain’t any happier than I am,” said a voice that Charlie well knew; and stepping from behind the great tree, Ned Gates ran into his arms.

“Why, Ned, how you have grown! I should hardly know you.”

“Have I, truly, Mr. Bell?” replied Ned, excessively pleased.

“Yes; and see what a cue he’s got,” said Walter, turning him round.

“Be still, Wal; how you do like to poke fun at me.”

“Mr. Bell,” asked Walter, “can you bear good news?”

“I guess so.”

“But you never had any such news as this.”

“I stood it pretty well when the Ark made her great voyage, and when Isaac Murch made so much money in the Hard-scrabble. I guess I can stand this,” replied Charlie, thinking Walter was about to tell him how much the Arthur Brown had made.

“O, it ain’t about money at all, but it’s something that will make you gladder than if you had a pile of gold as big as Elm Island.”

“Then it must be that you have given your heart to God, Walter.”

The tears came into Walter’s eyes in a moment.

“And do you think so much of me, Mr. Bell?”

“Just so much.”

“Well, it is not that. Your father has come.”

“My father, Walter, is dead, and I am preparing to put up a monument to his memory, right where we stand.”

“You needn’t put up any monument, for he’s alive and well, and in Captain Rhines’s house this minute.”

Charlie turned pale, staggered, and would have fallen to the ground, but was so near the elm that he fell against it. Walter put his arm around him, and he leaned his head on his friend’s shoulder.

“What made you tell him that way?” asked Ned.

“I didn’t mean to; but when he spoke to me about giving my heart to God, I didn’t know what I said.”

“It’s over, now,” said Charlie, lifting his head from Walter’s shoulder.

“He wasn’t killed, Mr. Bell,” said Ned, “though he was flung overboard for dead. The French picked him up, and we found him in Marseilles, selling baskets.”

“I will go right up to Captain Rhines’s,” said Charlie. “You stop at the house till I come back.”

“I must go home,” said Walter; “and Ned is going with me. I haven’t been home yet. I didn’t want anybody to bring this news but myself and Ned.”

When Charlie—his pale features still manifesting traces of the feelings which had mastered him—entered the sitting-room, the captain, taking him by the hand, pointed to the door of the parlor, which stood ajar.

We will draw a veil over the meeting of father and son; but when, at the expiration of half an hour, they came out together, traces of tears were on the cheeks of both, but they were tears of joy. When Charlie presented his wife to his father, and placed the child in his arms, “I can now,” said the happy grand-parent, “say, in the words of old Jacob, ‘I had not thought to see thy face, and lo! God hath also showed me thy seed.’”

As they sat side by side, the old gentleman with the child on his knee, Captain Rhines said,—

“I don’t see how anybody who ever saw Charlie could harbor any doubt about Mr. Bell’s being his father—they favor each other so much.”

“Ah, captain,” was the reply, “put an old, faded, red shirt on me, all stained up with osier sap, a tarpaulin hat, a bundle of baskets on my back, and, more than all, the heart-broken look I wore then, you yourself couldn’t have found much resemblance.”

As they returned to Pleasant Cove by the road that wound along the slope of land towards the house, skirting the sugar orchard, the sun, which was now getting low, illuminated with its level rays the whole declivity, falling off in natural terraces to the shore, and flashed upon the foliage of the rock-maples, now red as blood. Indian Island, with its high cliffs rising up from the glassy bosom of the bay, the white trunks and yellow leaves of its masses of tall birch contrasting with the darker hues of the oak and ash, with which the edges of the bank were fringed, presented a mingling of tints most delightful.

Mr. Bell, upon whom the glories of a New England forest in autumn produced all the effect of novelty, was, for a while, silent with wonder and delight.

He at length exclaimed, “How grand, how beautiful! And is all this land and forest yours, my son?”

“Yes, father, and a great deal more than you can see from here. I bought four hundred acres first, and two hundred more afterwards. Father, do you see that large island, with a cleared spot on the side of it?”

“With a house on it, that looks as though it were on fire, the sun is shining so bright on the windows?”

“Yes, that’s the one; that is Elm Island, where Lion Ben and his wife live, who have been a father and mother to me. God bless you, old Elm Island. What happy years I have spent on you!”

They next proceeded to the little promontory, and Mr. Bell stood beside the grave of her from whom he parted, in bitterness of heart, when he was pressed on board the hulk at Sheerness.

“Poor Mary! She starved—saw poverty and sorrow enough in this world; but I believe she is now experiencing infinitely more happiness than would be hers, were it in our power to call her from the grave to join us. I am glad, my son, that you have not set these quicks; we’ll make the hedge together. When I am gone, you can lay me in this beautiful spot beside her.”

They sat together beneath the elm, talking, till the stars began to come out one after another; and when that night Charlie knelt down to pray, it was with a heart full to overflowing with gratitude and joy.