"I have been over three years away from home," interrupted the stranger.

"Then you are t.i.te--the old man's son," resumed the boatman, "well, well!" Turning to him who pulled the bow-oar: "Stop pullin' a bit, Tom,"

said he, "stop pullin'."

The man now rested his oar, and rising from his seat, extended his hand to the stranger, saying: "There's a hard old honest hand that welcomes you safe back. John Flint is my name--called old Jack Flint generally."

And he shook t.i.te's hand again and again. "A heap o' people round here reckoned how you was dead--they did. I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, my boy. Its fifteen years since you and me sailed comrades on the sloop. Bin all round the world an' aint above shakin' the hand of an old fellow like me. That's what I like." Again and again the old boatman shook t.i.te's hand, and gave expression to such sentiments of joy as showed how true and honest was his heart.

"Yes, this is me, Jack, and I am as glad to see you as you are to see me. But I wanted to get across without being recognized."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Wouldn't take it amiss, would you," said he, "if a man like me was to ask what your name was?" Page 266.]

The old boatman felt in his pocket, and drawing forth the two Spanish dollars, insisted on returning them. "Them goes back into your pocket,"

he said, shaking his head, "Never shall be said Jack Flint charged an old comrade a sixpence for settin' him across stream."

"Keep it, keep it, Jack. I have enough for both of us," replied t.i.te, motioning his hand for the boatman to return the money to his pocket.

"Well, if you insist--an' I have to accept it, you see, it'll be out of respect and to please you." And he looked at the money doubtingly, shook his head, and reluctantly returned it to his pocket.

The man now resumed his oar, and they proceeded on with increased speed.

In less than half an hour from that time, they had landed at Nyack, and proceeding up the road had reached Bright's Inn, the two boatmen carrying the valise. Here they came to a halt, the men setting the valise down, while t.i.te seemed in doubt what to do next. Bewildered with the position he found himself in, hesitating and nervous, almost overcome by anxiety, his throbbing heart beat quicker and quicker the nearer he reached his home. But there was now a more violent struggle going on in his feelings. It was a struggle to decide between love and duty. Now he looked up the road in the direction of his home, and advanced a few steps. Again he paused and looked up enquiringly at the house. The old boatman had told him that Chapman lived there, when all the embers of that love he had so long cherished for Mattie seemed to kindle again into a living fire. And yet what changes might have taken place since he left? If, however, she still loved him, and was true to him, how could he pa.s.s the house, even at that late hour, without at least letting her know he was in Nyack?

It was indeed late, and there was still a mile before he reached the home of his parents. He could have more time in the morning to meet Mattie, to unfold his heart to her, and to give her an account of the many strange things that had happened to him since he left.

There was a bright light in two of the upper windows, but below the house was nearly dark, and Bright was in his bar-room, settling up the business of the day. Suddenly the light in the windows became brighter, then the shadow of a female figure was seen crossing and recrossing the room every few seconds. t.i.te watched and watched that flitting shadow, for he read in it the object of his heart's love, read in it the joy that was in store for him, perhaps--perhaps the sorrow. The figure was Mattie's, and it was her shadow that was causing him all this heart-aching. Now the figure took the place of the shadow, and stood looking out at the window, as if contemplating the moon and the stars, for nearly a minute. Yes, there was Mattie, watching and wondering what had become of the man who was at that moment contemplating her movements. Then the figure and the shadow disappeared, but it was only to increase t.i.te's impatience to see her.

The three men now proceeded to the door and the bell was rung. A moving of chairs and unlocking of doors indicated that the house had not gone to bed. The door was soon opened by t.i.tus Bright, in his shirt sleeves and slippers, and holding a candle in his hand. "What's up, Flint?" he enquired, for he saw only the boatmen; "what brings you over at this time of night?"

"There was a shillin' to be made, you see, Bright, and a pa.s.senger what wanted settin' over, you see," said the ferryman, his face beaming with good nature. "Know you'd like to see him, you know, Bright, and to make him as comfortable as you could for a night or so. Tom and me pulled him across." t.i.te now advanced towards the inn-keeper, who gazed at him with an air of astonishment, and held the candle above his head to avoid the shadow.

"Come in, come in," said Bright. "We will make the gentleman as comfortable as we can."

"You have forgotten me, I see," said t.i.te, smiling and extending his hand.

"G.o.d bless me!" exclaimed Bright, grasping his hand in a paroxysm of delight; "if here isn't t.i.te Toodleburg c.u.m home. Come in, come in.

Welcome home." After shaking him warmly by the hand and leading him into the parlor, the inn-keeper ran and brought his wife, who welcomed the young man with the tenderness of a mother. The good woman would have had a fire made and supper prepared, and indeed entertained him for the rest of the night, expressing her joy over his return, had he not told her how great was his anxiety to see his parents.

"I know who it is the young man wants to see," said Bright, touching him on the elbow and nodding his head suggestively. "And there'll be a flutter up stairs when it's told her you're c.u.m home."

The boatmen had remained in the hall. Bright now invited them into his bar and filled mugs of ale for them, and joined them in drinking the health of the young man who had been round the world. He then dismissed them, saying he would take care of the young gentleman's baggage; and stepping up stairs, tapped gently at Chapman's door. "We were all retiring for the night," said Mrs. Chapman, opening the door slightly, and looking alarmed, for Bright was in a flutter of excitement, and it was nearly a minute before he could tell what he wanted. At length he stammered out: "There, there, there--there's a strange gentleman down stairs, mam--and he would like to see Miss Mattie, I am sure he would."

"Mr. Bright," replied Mrs. Chapman, tossing her head and compressing her lips, "he can't be much of a gentleman to come at this hour of night. My daughter has no acquaintance who would presume to take such a liberty.

Etiquette forbids it."

Mattie now made her appearance, with a book half open in her left hand, and looking anxious and agitated. Then resting her right hand on her mother's shoulder, "Mr. Bright," she enquired, in a hesitating voice, "what does the gentleman look like?"

"A nice gentleman enough, Miss--"

"Is it any one you know?"

"Why, Miss," resumed Bright, with an air of reluctance, "wouldn't intrude at this house, but I know you'd like to see the gentleman; and wouldn't be particular about the time."

Mattie fixed her eyes on Bright with a steady gaze, her agitation increased, her face changed color rapidly, her heart seemed to beat anew with some sudden transport of joy. "Oh, mother! oh, mother!" she exclaimed, tossing the book on the floor, "I know who Mr. Bright means.

It's him! I know it's him! He has come back!" She rushed past her mother, vaulted as it were down the stairs and into the parlor. The young man stood motionless. He was so changed in dress and appearance that she suddenly hesitated, and for a moment drew back, as if in doubt.

"It is me, Mattie," said t.i.te, smiling and advancing with his hand extended. The thought suddenly flashed through his mind that she might have expected some one else. He was mistaken, for she met his advance like one whose heart was filled with joy. In short, the words had hardly fallen from his lips when they were in each other's arms, and giving such proofs of their affection as only hearts bound together by the truest and purest of love can give.

"I knew you would come back to me--yes, I knew you would. There was an angel guarding you while absent," she whispered, looking up as he kissed her and kissed her. And as her eyes met his her face brightened with a smile so full of sweetness and gentleness.

"I knew what would happen," said Bright, opening the door apace and looking in. "Knew there would be just such a scene." Just at that moment Mrs. Chapman brushed past the exuberant inn-keeper, and stood like a ma.s.sive statue, looking at the scene before her with an air of surprise and astonishment, for Mattie was still clasped in the young man's arms.

"My daughter! my daughter!" she exclaimed, raising her fat hands, "enough to make a mother faint to see a well-brought-up daughter so familiar? It shocks me, my daughter. I am sure I am glad to see the young man home. But familiarity of that kind's not becoming. Your father never would have married me if I had allowed familiarity of that kind."

"You must blame me; it was all my fault," said t.i.te, handing Mattie to a chair, and advancing toward Mrs. Chapman.

"You have been away a long time, haven't you," said the lady, receiving his hand in a cold and formal manner. "You are very much changed--the effect of the sea-air on the complexion, I suppose? We shall be very glad to see you at any time, Mr. Toodleburg. It was so late we didn't expect visitors, and were not prepared for them. You said you had not seen your aged parents?"

"Not yet," replied t.i.te, "but I shall proceed there soon."

"It was very kind of you," resumed the lady, "to pay us this compliment.

How very anxious they must be to see you."

"And I am equally anxious to see them," he replied; "but I could not pa.s.s without seeing you--just for a few minutes." Then turning to Mattie, he exchanged kisses with her, kissed her good-night, to the great distress of her mother, who was compelled to look on. He also promised to call early in the morning, spend most of the day, and give an account of his voyage.

A minute more and he was seated in a wagon beside Bright, and proceeding over the road toward Hanz's little house.

When he was gone, and the Chapmans had retired to their room, "Ma," said Mattie, her face coloring with feeling, "it was very unkind, even cruel of you to treat the young gentleman so coldly."

"Done to balance the familiarity, my daughter--the familiarity! Needed something to balance that," interrupted the lady, bowing her head formally. "Young man looks respectable enough. He may have come home and not a sixpence in his pocket--who knows? In these matters, my daughter, it's always best to know where the line is drawn before building your house."

"He might have come home penniless; it would not have made a bit of difference to me, mother, I would love him just as much," replied Mattie. "But I can forgive you, ma, for I know you did not mean what you said." And she kissed her mother, and retired for the night, the happiest woman in all Nyack.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

HE BRINGS JOY INTO THE HOUSE.

All was silent and dark in the little house where Hanz Toodleburg lived, when the wagon containing t.i.te and the inn-keeper drew up at the gate. A dull, dreamy stillness seemed to hang over the place, and the little, old house was in the full enjoyment of a deep sleep. The two men alighted, and t.i.te stood for a few minutes viewing the scene around him.

How strange and yet how familiar everything seemed. He was at the opposite side of the world only a few months ago, and time had sped on so swiftly that it seemed as if he had gone to bed at night on one side of the globe, and waked up in the morning at the other. Then he was on an island almost unknown to the rest of the world, surrounded by scenes so wild, so strange and romantic, that the reader would not believe them real.

Here now was the old lattice gate, the vine-covered arbor leading through the garden to the cracked and blistered-faced front door, the stack of hop-vines in the garden-corner, and the rickety veranda where, when a boy, he used to sit beside his father of a summer evening, for it was here Hanz welcomed his friends and smoked his pipe. It was here, too, that Angeline, the spirit of whose sweet face had been with him in his wanderings, used to sit at her flax-wheel, spinning thread that was famous in Fly Market.

Could this be a sweet dream, a beautiful delusion, a spirit-spell that moves the soul with pictures of love and enchantment, and from which some stern reality would soon awake him and dispel the charm? No, it was reality, appealing more forcibly to all that was true and kindly in his nature, and filling his eyes with tears.

The inn-keeper noticed the effect it was having on his feelings, and made an effort to divert his attention. "Looks kind o' natural after bein' round the world doesn't it, t.i.te?" he enquired.

"Yes--seems like home again," was the quiet reply.