In the young man’s kindled mood, composition was easy, and by two o’clock his article was done.

He was leaning back in his chair, enjoying the consciousness of eighty dollars earned, when the door opened, and in came the Captain, with his head very much on one side, and an ominous gravity on his quaint features. He did not remove his straw-hat, but stood surveying Harrington with a critical eye, like a marine raven. A slow smile twinkled around the young man’s bearded mouth, for he instantly divined what the Captain had come for.

“Well, Eldad,” he said, “it’s the rent, I know. I see rent written in every lineament of your ingenuous countenance. Come, sit down.”

The Captain slowly lifted his clenched fist and shook it at Harrington, then lounged about, seated himself on the sofa under the windows, and cocked up his eye at the trap in the ceiling.

“Could I smoke, John?” he asked, suddenly dropping his glance at the young man.

“Certainly. Light up, and smoke away.”

Keeping his head on one side, and his round, bright eyes intent on the smiling Harrington, the Captain produced a short pipe and a match from the hollow of his left hand, and putting the pipe in one corner of his mouth, lit the match on his sleeve, and igniting the tobacco, began to blow a cloud.

“And why didn’t you come to dinner?” he blandly demanded, opening the war.

“Dinner! I declare I never thought of it till this minute,” exclaimed Harrington, coloring a little.

“It was a brile to-day, John,” pursued the Captain, contemplatively, smoking. “Briled steak, potatoes, spinach, with a top off of bread puddin’ and coffee,” he continued, pensively enumerating the components of the meal. “Together with bread and butter, and apple-sarce. Joel James eat till he thought his jacket was buttoned. Hannah says, ‘I wonder where John is?’ Sophrony answers, ‘he’s in his room, for I see him go in at eleven o’clock.’ ‘Better call him,’ says John H. ‘Better not,’ says I, ‘or you’ll scatter some of his idees.’ So we didn’t.”

Harrington listened attentively to this account of the family colloquy on his absence from the dinner-table. Joel James was the Captain’s son, a sturdy schoolboy of ten. Sophronia was his daughter, a girl of fifteen. John H. was the youngest son, named after Harrington. Hannah was the Captain’s wife.

“John,” said the Captain, changing the subject, “two hundred and fifty’s not enough. I’m goin’ to raise it to three hundred.”

“Good!” exclaimed Harrington, with a jovial air. “I knew it was the rent! Eldad, this rent is our standing grievance. Well, I’m going to lower it to two hundred.”

“In which event, I’m going to move, bag and baggage,” retorted the Captain.

Harrington laughed aloud, and sat smiling at the Captain, whose quaint features were screwed into a grin, and momently lit in little flashes of red from the bowl of the pipe near his cheek.

“Eldad,” replied Harrington, “if I had my way, you should have the house rent free.”

“Which I wunt,” said the Captain.

“Of course you won’t,” continued Harrington; “but, Eldad, you were mother’s mainstay, and have been like a father to me since she died, and it grates on my feelings to have you paying me money. Well, no matter. Let it go. But I’ll be even with you one of these days.”

“Well,” returned the Captain, “it’s settled then?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Three hundred, you say.”

“O no, Eldad. Two fifty.”

“Three hundred.”

“Two fifty.”

“Three hundred dollars.”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars, Eldad. Not another stiver. I’m resolved now.”

The Captain sighed, and smoked pensively.

“I lost a customer to-day, John,” he remarked, after a long pause.

“Indeed! Which induced you to increase your expenses, by raising the rent,” bantered Harrington.

“Collected for him these six years back,” continued the Captain, pensively. “Lem Atkins, you know.”

“Lemuel Atkins!” exclaimed Harrington, leaning forward. “Why that’s Mrs. Eastman’s brother.”

“Certain. Cotton merchant on Long Wharf, and a black sheep he is too. Webster Whig—pro-slavery up to the hub—reg’lar aristocrat every way. He was one of the Fifteen Hundred Scoundrels, as Phillips called ’em. Ruther guess all the bad that ever was in his sister and niece was drawn off before they were born, and bottled up in him.”

“And how came you to lose him?” interrogated Harrington.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” replied the Captain. “You see, I’ve collected the rents of eight of his houses for six years back—some of ’em went ruther aginst my grain, too. Poor houses, scacely fit for human bein’s to live in, two or three of ’em, and sech as no decent man would own or let out to anybody. Howiver. He gave me the memorandums of three more about a week ago. Mighty big rents Atkins gits for these dwellin’s, thinks I to myself, as I entered them on my book. Spoon o’ horn! I niver guessed it till I went down there yesterday, an’ found out what sort of houses them are for which Atkins gits his big rents.”

“That’s fine in Atkins,” remarked Harrington. “Always talking about the duty of citizens to obey the laws, right or wrong, and here he violates the statute against letting houses for such purposes. But perhaps he didn’t know who his tenants were.”

“He know? Lord! he knew fast enough,” replied the Captain. “Laws? All the laws he obeys are the laws that go for his money. There’s lots like him. They go for every money law, from the Fugitive Slave Law upward, for I ruther guess there ain’t no downward from the Fugitive Slave Law. Why, there’s a Massachusetts law aginst over usury. Who don’t keep it? Who lets out money for ten per cent., twenty per cent., any per cent. they can git? Them very sort o’ men that’s always blatherin’ about obedience to the laws, right or wrong. Ony when a man’s libaty’s consarned, and the law goes for takin’ it away from him, then they’re awfully law-abidin’ citizens. By the great horn spoon! I’d just like to have the stringin’ up of them law-abiders with a copy of the Revised Statutes round their necks!”

Harrington leaned back in his chair, with his hands clasped, and his brow knitted.

“Well, as I was sayin’,” resumed the Captain, “I went into one of them houses. ‘Young women,’ says I, leavin’, ‘you’d better repent, for the kingdom of heaven’s at hand.’ I tell you I was mad when I found a similar state o’ things in the tother two, and I just bounced out, and went right down to Lem Atkins. ‘Mr. Atkins,’ says I, ‘you’d better employ your former agent for them houses.’ ‘What’s the matter, Fisher,’ says he. ‘Matter is,’ says I, ‘that I guess you don’t know what sort o’ callin’ ’s followed in them tenements.’ ‘It’s not my business, Mr. Fisher,’ says he, ‘to busy myself with the occupation of my tenants. How dare you speak to me in that manner.’ I looked him right in the eye. He swelled up like a turkey-cock, but he didn’t look at me a second. ‘Mr. Atkins,’ says I, ‘no offince, but as I’ve got sons and a daughter, the occupation of your tenants is a consarn o’ mine, and you must get another man to collect them rents, for I wunt do it, an’ I pity the man that will.’ He turned off to his desk. ‘Mr. Fisher,’ says he, ‘you wunt do any more collectin’ for me, so just send up your accounts, and we’ll be quits.’ ‘Very well,’ says I, and I left with his collectin’ off my hands for good.”

“Bravo, Eldad! That was done like a man!” cried Harrington.

“If it wasn’t for bringin’ disgrace on his sister and that splendid daughter of hers,” said the Captain, rising, with his pipe in his clenched hand, “I’d just let the thing be known around town, I would. Say, John, she’s a beauty, though, ain’t she? John, she’s the ony lady I know that’s good enough for you.”

Harrington colored deeply, in spite of himself.

“Well, the other one’s splendid, too,” said the Captain, as if in answer to a private thought of the young man, scrutinizing his countenance meanwhile, with his own head all awry. “Yes, she’s a regular clipper. I never was so took aback by any human action as by that offer to buy Roux’s brother. That was ginerosity such as we read of—ony it’s a pity she didn’t know the harm she was doin’. Yes, she’s a glory, and that’s a fact. Still, I wish it was tother one.”

“Why, Eldad,” said Harrington, laughing and fiery red, “you’re all at sea. Surely you don’t think I’m in love with Miss Ames?”

The Captain looked hard at him.

“Well, so I’ve ben told, John,” he replied.

Harrington puckered up his mouth in wonder.

“Bless me, how people will talk!” he exclaimed. “Why there’s not a word of truth in it. Of course I like Emily very much”—

“And she you,” interposed the Captain.

“And she me? I declare! I shall hear next that she is in love with me, I suppose!” exclaimed Harrington.

“Well, so I’ve ben told,” coolly responded the Captain; “dead in love with you.”

Harrington stared at him, but the color ebbed away from his countenance, and a flood of dreadful confirmations overswept him. Her recent sudden preference for his society, her lavish attentions to him, the fervent and sumptuous fondness of her manner, rushed in new light upon his consciousness. Purblind fool that I am, he thought; I mistook it all for friendship, and it meant love! For a moment, poor Harrington felt as guilty as though he had known and encouraged Emily’s passion for him. But no, he thought, this is all a mistake; it cannot be.

“Eldad,” said he, “this is rather a serious matter; more serious than you may imagine. Come, now, be frank with me. You say you’ve been told Miss Ames is in love with me. Now who told you!”

The Captain, with his head all atwist, scanned him curiously, slowly rubbing his chin, meanwhile, with the palm of his brown hand.

“Well, John,” he answered, slowly, “I was asked not to mention it. Howiver, I guess I will. That young Witherlee told me.”

“Oh!” said Harrington.

“Yis, John,” continued the Captain. “I come in here one day about a week ago, I guess, and found him sittin’ in your chair, smokin’ his cigar. He said he was waitin’ for you, and we had a chat. In the course of the conversation, he let that out. I ruther thought he was tryin’ to pump somethin’ out of me on that subject, but I didn’t know nothin’, an’ if I did, he wouldn’t have been the wiser, I guess.”

“What did he say?” asked Harrington.

“Well, not overmuch,” replied the Captain. “Seemed to know all about it, howiver. Talked as if he was in your confidence. Asked when you were goin’ to be married. Well, now, he didn’t exactly say it, you know, but he somehow gave me to understand that you were in love with Miss Ames, an’ she likewise with you; an’ thought her family wouldn’t make no objections. That was about all.”

Harrington, with a look of pain, reddened while the Captain was speaking, and his nostrils quivered.

“I am shocked and grieved that Witherlee should talk in this way,” he said, sadly. “I shall certainly call him to account for this.”

“John, you musn’t mention it,” said the Captain, anxiously. “He said he thought I knew all about it, or he wouldn’t have alluded to it, and he made me promise not to speak of it. It won’t do, John. Fact is, I oughtn’t to have said a word.”

Harrington leaned his elbows on the table, and for a moment buried his face in his hands. He had a clear glimpse into the method of the good Fernando.

“Very well, Eldad,” he said, calmly, leaning back in his chair. “Let it go, I won’t speak of it. But I assure you there’s not a word of truth in this statement, so far as I’m concerned, and I hope there is not in regard to Miss Ames!”

The Captain did not answer, but lounged away, and during the long silence that followed, walked up and down with a ruminating air. At length he stopped and fronted the young man, who was absorbed in musing.

“John,” said he, “to-day’s the day, you know.”

Harrington, knowing what he meant, bent his head, looking with half-absent sadness into vacancy.

“Twelve years ago to-day, John, the good ship Contocook went down,” continued the Captain, in a hushed voice, with a half-soliloquizing air. “All the women an’ children saved. That was a comfort, John.”

Harrington again bowed his head silently. Every year, on the twenty-fifth of May, he was accustomed to hear the Captain speak of this.

“And all the men saved, John,” continued the Captain. “That was another comfort. All but one, John.”

The Captain paused, solemnly, and took off his hat.

“As good a seaman as ever trod the deck,” he resumed. “As fine a man as ever breathed the breath of life. Captain John Harrington, aged forty-two. Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord!”

There was a long silence.

“And he died in the Lord, John,” continued the Captain. “I don’t know as he ever got religion. But he died in the Lord.”

The Captain paused once more, muttering the last words below his breath.

“Yes, John,” he continued, “that’s the way he died. I’ve been thinkin’ of it all day. It’s been comin’ to me how that rollin’ iceberg tumbled through the thick fog, in the dead of night, and struck the ship, and stove in her bows. ‘Back from the boats,’ he shouts, catchin’ up the hand-spike. ‘The first man that touches a boat I’ll brain. Women and children first, men.’ ‘That’s the talk,’ sings out some of the sailors, an’ them that was goin’ to take the boats fell away. ‘Now, then, the women and children,’ says he. Over the side they went, one by one; he standin’ by with the handspike. ‘Now the other passengers,’ says he. Over they went too. ‘Now, men,’ he says, ‘there’s room in that boat for some of ye, and the rest of us’ll go into the other. Over they went, likewise, till only he and the black cook was left. ‘The boat’s full, captain,’ says John Timbs, the first mate, ‘but I guess she’ll hold another.’ ‘Jump in doctor,’ says Captain Harrington to the darkey. ‘No,’ they hollered, ‘white men before niggers, captain, and we’ll have you.’ ‘I’ll stay, captain,’ blubbers cook, ‘No you won’t,’ says he. ‘Men,’ he says, ‘it’s a favor I ask. Don’t deny me, or you’ll never know peace. In with you, doctor,’ an’ he slung the cook over the side. ‘Try now, captain,’ says they, all beseechin’ together. An’ he let himself down by the rope till he stood in the boat, an’ the sea begun to come over the gunnels. He was up into the ship again in a minute. ‘It’s no use, men,’ says he, ‘push off. Timbs,’ says he, ‘give my love to my wife and boy, if I never see ’em again. God bless ye, men.’ And then the ship lurched for’ard, an’ they pushed off, cryin’ like babes. Last thing they saw through the fog was the captain flingin’ a hatch overboard, and jumpin’ after it. But that sea was too cold for a man to be in long. Then when they lost sight of him, they heard the wallow, an’ saw the lazy swells lift up round the boat, an’ knew that the ship had gone down.”

The Captain paused, wiping away with his sleeve the salt tears which the simple epic of a brave man’s death brought to his eyes.

“That was the story, and them was the last words Timbs brought home to your mother, John,” he continued. “An’ that’s the way he died. Women and children saved. That’s a comfort. An’ all the men saved, includin’ the poor old moke of a doctor. That’s another comfort. But he died. An’, somehow, I kinder feel that’s a comfort too, John. For he died in the Lord.”

The light lay softly on the pale and kindled features of Harrington, and the fragrance of the garden floated through his brain like incense.

“It was a manly way to leave the world,” he said. “Life is sweet to me with the memory of such a father.”

“You think of him often, John,” murmured the Captain.

“Often, Eldad, often. Never as one dead. Always as one alive and well.”

The Captain moved his head up and down, two or three times, in token of assent, and moved away to the door.

“Well, good bye, John,” he said, suddenly.

“Good bye, Eldad,” returned the young man, rising and following him to the door.

The Captain departed, and Harrington, closing the door after him, folded his arms, and began to pace to and fro in deep musing. The sweet and solemn feeling which the anniversary of his father’s death brought him, gradually melted away in feelings of sadness and pain, as the torturing thought came into his mind, that in his free and frank friendship for Emily he might have won her to love him. The more he reflected upon it, the more terrible grew the confirmations. His conviction of a fortnight before, that she and Wentworth were lovers—how could he have been so deceived!

The spell of the magic moment that had filled his soul with morning, was disenchanted now, and darkness gathered upon him. Darkness that was not without light, for he again believed that Wentworth and Muriel loved each other, and he felt a sorrowful and generous gladness in their happiness. His heart yearned to Wentworth—yearned to make him rejoice with the assurance that he was not his rival—yearned to them both in love and blessing.

He paused in his walk, as through his joy for them struck the sharp pain of the consciousness that the costly treasure of her love was not for him.

“Heart of my heart, soul of my soul,” he murmured fervently, “I love you, though I lose you. All that is divine and human is dearer and lovelier to me because I love you, though you are lost to me. Lost, lost to me forever.”

His head sunk upon his breast, and his eyes closed. The lilac fragrance floated in and reeled in a warm gust upon his throbbing brain. Some silent spirit seemed near him in the sunlit room, and strange comfort stole upon him like the bliss of a dream.

“Farewell, Muriel,” he murmured, his blue eyes unclosing, dimmed with a mist of tears, “farewell, farewell. It is one hope the less, and life calls me still.”

He sunk into his chair, and striving to banish her image from his mind, began to think how he should deal with Emily. In a little while he resolved that, however difficult and delicate to do, he must frankly tell her of what he had heard, and let her know his true relation to her.

His conclusion made, he still sat musing, his spirit clouded with sadness and anxiety. Suddenly he heard the gate fly open and slam to, and a firm tread rush over the planked walk, then the door opening, in darted Wentworth, flushed, electric, panting, furious with rage.