THE LONG-LOST.
“What became of Marguerite, father?” asked Kate, as Captain Bilder seated himself in the arm-chair, with the envelope in his hand.
“Shortly after our return to New York, your mother died,” replied her father. “Her grief at the loss of her little boy aggravated her disease, so that the skill of the doctors was unavailing. She died a month after her arrival in the city. We had a house and Marguerite remained to take care of you. I employed a Mrs. Banford as my housekeeper, who came to Belfast when I bought this place. She lived with me five years. But I suppose you do not remember her.”
“No, father, I do not.”
“Marguerite came here with us; but she was not contented, and wanted to go back to her friends in New Orleans. She was a faithful nurse, and I desired very much to retain her. I could not blame her for the loss of my little boy, for she seemed to be almost as much grieved as the child’s mother. The door of the state-room was left open by my own order, and I could only blame myself. Marguerite would not stay in Belfast, and I had to consent to her leaving. She left for New York with the intention of going to New Orleans. I suppose she did; but I never heard a word from her from that day to this.”
“But did you never hear anything about the little boy?” asked Kate, who had an indistinct remembrance of something.
“I was going to tell you, my child,” added Captain Bilder, opening the envelope in his hand, and taking a note from it. “Ten years ago I received this letter, which appears to have been written by a woman. I will read it to you.
“‘CAPTAIN BILDER: Your little boy was not drowned. He is still liveing. Some time he might go to you. He is well brought up. He lives with rich folkes, who love him verry much. They will do everything for him. He thinks his father is dead. I said some time he might go to you. I do not know as he will. If he does, he will give you one of three peaces of a card, which have six lines of writing on it. I send to you the middle peace of the card. Your son will fetch to you the left hand peace. On your son’s peace it is written where you will get the third peace. Your son may never go to you. If he does go, you will know it is your son by the first peace of card, which just fits your peace.’
“There was no signature to this note, and it was evidently written in a disguised hand. It was penned by an illiterate person, or by one who pretended to be so. A few words are spelled wrong. Here is the piece of card which came in the letter,” continued Captain Bilder, as he handed the piece of pasteboard to Kate.
It was irregular in its shape, as may be seen in the diagram. It had been cut in the three pieces after the six lines had been written upon it, and was cut so as to divide most of the words and some of the letters. When the other parts should be produced, it would be impossible to make any mistake in regard to their identity.
“I see the six lines of writing,” said Kate, with the most intense interest.
“Yes; and I can supply the words and letters which are on the other parts of the card,” added her father.
“The first line is the name of your ship--‘Coriolanus;’ the next is ‘andon.’”
“Neil Brandon, without a doubt; and the ‘m’ under it is the first letter of the word mate.”
“The third line must be your name, father; but there is another m after it.”
“Yes, a capital, the initial of ‘Master.’ The fourth line is not so clear. The second word is ‘Brandon,’ and the ‘te’ is the end of ‘Marguerite.’”
“Then the mate married the nurse?”
“I suppose he did. The fifth line has only a single word, underscored, which was Marguerite’s last name. The word ‘formerly’ may be before it, or something implying the same thing. If the card means anything, we must infer that Marguerite Lardier was married to Brandon.”
“But were they married, father?”
“I don’t know. She never said a word to me or your mother about Brandon, after he was discharged. Whether she saw him in New York, while we were there, I have no means of knowing. When this letter came to me, ten years ago, I had a long talk with Mrs. Banford about it, for she was my housekeeper then.”
“Where is she now?” asked Kate.
“She went to California to live with her brother, about a year after this letter came. I have never heard a word from her or of her.”
“The last line is written back-handed,” added the daughter.
“That must be the little boy’s name in full--‘Oscar Blake Bilder.’ Whoever wrote this card knows all about me and my affairs.”
“Who do you think it was, father?”
“I can form no idea. After the search I made on the Mississippi River, I can hardly believe the boy was stolen, as the letter and card imply that he was. At first I was inclined to think it was a scheme to extort money from me. But as no one has yet appeared with the first part of the card, I concluded long ago that it was a heartless joke by some enemy, who knew the story of my life.”
“Perhaps Marguerite wrote the letter,” suggested Kate.
“She had no motive for doing so.”
“Possibly she had. Do you know her handwriting?”
“I never saw any of it. I don’t even know that she could write.”
“This card indicates that she became the wife of Neil Brandon, your mate,” continued Kate. “He may have induced her to write it.”
“It may be. And I am confident that the one who wrote the note also wrote the card; for, though the hand is disguised, certain letters are just alike in both.”
“You said Neil Brandon swore he would ruin you if he could,” added Kate.
“I am ruined; but he did not do it.”
“But perhaps he stole your little boy.”
“I have thought of that before; but I can hardly reconcile the deed with what I know of the man, or with the facts of the case. Perhaps he was wicked enough to do it; but if he had been near the Mississippi, I think the detectives would have obtained some clew to him.”
“A young man at the door wishes to see you, sir,” said a servant, at the door of the library.
“Who is he?” asked Captain Bilder.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Tell him I am busy, and can’t see him now,” added the captain.
The servant retired, but presently returned with Mr. McGusher’s ample pasteboard in her hand.
“This is the young man’s card, he says; and he has come all the way from New York to see you on very important business,” said she.
“Arthur McGusher,” added Captain Bilder, reading from the card. “He seems to be a drummer. But send him in, for I believe I have finished my story, Kate.”
“A drummer? What’s that, father?” asked the daughter; but before the captain could explain, Mr. McGusher was shown into the room.
“I beg your pawdon,” the young gentleman began, with an extensive flourish and a very reverential bow; “have I the honaw to addwess Captain Bilder?”
“That’s my name; and you are Mr. Arthur McGusher, I suppose,” added the ship-master, glancing at the card in his hand.
“I have the honaw,” said the representative of Hewlins & Heavybones, with another profound obeisance.
“Take a seat, Mr. McGusher.”
Mr. McGusher took a seat. Possibly he was a student of art, and had critically studied the positions of all the sitting statues, and all the figures in the pictures, though it is not probable that he had done so. At any rate, his posture was not entirely accidental. He arranged himself gracefully in the chair, as though he had practised sitting down in the attic of the cheap boarding-house where he lived. He wore yellow gloves, and carried a light cane. Kate looked at him with the same interest she would have bestowed upon the funny actor in a play; and, in spite of the sadness with which her father’s story had filled her, she was inclined to laugh, or at least to smile.
“Perhaps I had better inform you in the beginning that I am not in business of any kind, as you seem to be a drummer,” said Captain Bilder, when the visitor had adjusted himself to his own satisfaction in the chair.
“Not a dwummaw, saw--I beg your pawdon,” promptly interposed Mr. McGusher. “I do not wait upon you as the wepwesentative of the commawcial house in which I have the honaw to be engaged. My business is entirely pawsonal and pwivate.”
“Well, sir, what is your business?”
“I will pwoceed with it without any unnecessawy delay. You had a son, Captain Bilder.”
Kate was startled, the ship-master frowned, and the visitor paused to note the effect of his sudden announcement.
“Who told you I had?” demanded the captain.
“One who knows, saw.”
“Who was he?” added Captain Bilder, sharply, for he regarded the young man’s answer as an evasion.
“I beg your pawdon; I don’t know, saw,” replied Mr. McGusher, rather disturbed by the sharp tone of the ship-master.
“You don’t know! Somebody told you, but you don’t know who!”
“I beg your pawdon; I didn’t say somebody _told_ me. I received the information in a lettaw signed ‘One who Knows.’”
“An anonymous letter.”
“Anonymous, if you please, saw. I do not know who wote it. I did not wite it.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I found it in the stoaw one morning thwee weeks ago. It was addwessed to Mr. Awthur McGushaw which is my name.”
“Did it come to you by mail?”
“No, saw; it came by pwivate hand; at least, there was no post-mawk on it. The lettaw was a most extwaordinawy one.”
“You were informed in it that I had a son--were you?” asked Captain Bilder, wondering what the young fellow was driving at.
“Not in tawms, saw--only by infewence. The lettaw infawmed me that _I_ was the son of Captain Wichard Bilder; and if I was your son, why, of course, you had a son. I think the infewence was justifiable,” replied Mr. McGusher, whose face wore a triumphant expression.
“The letter informed you that you were my son!” exclaimed Captain Bilder.
“That is pwecisely what it infawmed me,” answered the young man, taking from the breast pocket of his coat the letter. “I have it here, saw.”
“Let me see it.”
“I beg your pawdon: but will you pawmit me to wead it to you?”
“Let me see it first.”
“Will you pawdon me if I decline to do so for the pwesent? This lettaw is a very impawtant one to me.”
“It seems to be a very important one to me, also.”
“I beg your pawdon; but it is my pwopawty, and I pwefaw to wetain it for the pwesent. You are a stwangaw to me, Captain Bilder; though it seems to be dooced odd that one’s own fawther should be a stwanger to him; but I know you to be a vewy wespectable gentleman. As you are a stwangaw I don’t know that you evaw had a son. You have not said you had. If you nevaw had a son, why, of cawse, I can’t be your son, whatever One who Knows may wite to me.”
“Do let him read the letter, father,” Kate interposed, more willing than the ship-master that the visitor should proceed in his own way.
“Thank you, Miss Bildaw--I pwesume I have the honaw of speaking to Miss Bildaw, whom I should be pwoud to acknowledge as my sister,” said Mr. McGusher, with a graceful bow, and a smile as soft as the smiler’s head.
“Go on,” replied the captain.
“If you nevaw had a son, Captain Bildaw, of course it would be a waste of your valuable time for me to wead the letter,” suggested Mr. McGusher.
“I had a son, who is believed to have been drowned when he was four years old,” added the ship-master.
“Not dwowned, saw. I am that son,” said the young man, placing one of his yellow-gloved hands on the place where his heart belonged, and bestowing a look of unutterable affection upon the captain and his daughter.
“Read the letter!” said the ship-master, sternly.
“I will wead it at once,” replied Mr. McGusher, opening the letter, and taking from it something which he placed in his vest pocket.
We shall give the letter as it was written, and not as the young man read it, for it would be quite impossible for dull types to give it any of the eloquent flourish he gave it. Mr. McGusher rose for the effort, and placed his hat and cane on a chair. Perhaps he could not be eloquent in a sitting posture, however graceful it might be. The letter was as follows:--
“MR. ARTHUR MCGUSHER. Dear Sir: I want to do justice to the living and the dead; but I have not the courage to face the indignation of those I have wronged, or to take the penalty of my transgression.
“The man whom you supposed to be your father was not your father. You were stolen from your parents when you were four years old. The one who did this is now dead--has been dead for many years. I am guilty only of concealing my knowledge of the truth. The name of the man who took you from a steamboat on the Mississippi River was Neil Brandon. He has been dead at least ten years. He carried you to England. He and his wife claimed you as their own child. He left you in Liverpool with a man of your name,--Mr. McGusher,--who came to America thirteen years ago. He told me all I know about you; and I ought to have told your real father; but I did not. I am guilty; but I hope to be forgiven.
“Captain Richard Bilder, who lives in Belfast, Maine, is your real father. I send you a piece of a card, which you will give to your father when you go to him. He will know what it means. You were stolen from your parents the first night after they left New Orleans. Neil Brandon did it. Your father is a very rich man, and I hope you will be happy with him. It will only be necessary to give your father the piece of card. He will know you are his son by this. I have kept this secret for many years. It has been like a coal of fire in my soul. If you ask how I know that you are the son of Captain Richard Bilder, of Belfast, Maine, I will answer that Mr. McGusher told me so on his death-bed. He said that Neil Brandon gave him a hundred pounds to take care of the boy till he was able to work and support himself. With this money he came to America. He boarded with me (a year, erased), and died in my house. I could not take care of you, and I sent you to the Orphan Asylum. But I have kept watch of you ever since. Some time I may make myself known to you; but I dare not do so yet. All that I have written is true; and I am
“ONE WHO KNOWS.”
Captain Bilder and Kate listened with the most intense interest to the reading of this rambling letter. Kate had suggested before that Neil Brandon might have stolen her little brother in revenge for being discharged from the Coriolanus, and thus losing the command of her at a future time. The explanation of the mystery contained in the letter was plausible to her. Her father was silent, and was evidently weighing and comparing the statements made in the letter.
“I have finished the lettaw, saw,” said Mr. McGusher, who stood ready to throw himself into the arms of the ship-master, and more especially into the arms of his lovely daughter: but there was no demonstration on the part of either of them.
Captain Bilder did not even ask for the piece of the card alluded to in the epistle. He didn’t get excited worth a cent. He didn’t say a word about “my long-lost son, come to my arms!” Mr. McGusher could not understand his coolness and self-possession. It was not exactly the way a long-lost son ought to be received, in his opinion.
“How old are you, Mr. McGusher?” asked Captain Bilder, after a long silence.
“I don’t know, saw. You ought to know bettaw than I,” replied the long-lost.
“How old do you think you are?”
“As neaw as I can figaw it, I am eighteen.”
“Where do you live when you are at home?”
“In New Yawk city.”
“What part of the city?”
“I bawd in Twenty-Second Stweet.”
“How long have you boarded there?”
“About thwee yeaws.”
“Will you let me see that letter?” asked Captain Bilder, extending his hand for the document.
“I beg your pawdon, saw. Some fellaw in the Scwipchaw sold his bawthwight for a mess of potash. If his bawthwight was in the fawm of a lettaw like this, he oughtn’t to have sold it for all the potash in the wawld--not if the soap-boiling business was wuined by it. But you are a vewy wespectable pawson, Captain Bilder. If you will give me your wawd that you will westaw the lettaw to me, I will submit it for your inspection.”
“I will give it back to you,” answered the ship-master.
Captain Bilder examined the letter, Kate looking over his shoulder as he did so. It was in a woman’s handwriting, and it was plain that she was a person of some culture, for the spelling was good, and the capitals were rightly used. The writer was a person of mature age. The repetitions and the rambling character of the letter were evidently intended, and the penmanship was hardly the writer’s usual hand. But a person writing such a letter would naturally seek to conceal his agency in the matter.
“This was not written by the person who sent me the piece of card,” said Captain Bilder, in a low tone, as he compared the two letters.
“But it is very strange,” whispered Kate.
“Very strange; but I can’t believe that fellow is my son.”
“I don’t wish to believe he is my brother,” added Kate.
If Mr. McGusher heard any of this conversation, it was not intended for his ear; and, perhaps to avoid anything disagreeable, he sauntered over to a window which looked out upon the garden.
“This letter says you were sent to an Orphan Asylum,” continued Captain Bilder, renewing the charge upon the long-lost.
“Yes, saw;” replied Mr. McGusher, resuming his chair in front of the ship-master and his daughter.
“What institution was it?”
“An Awphan Asylum where they take in small children who have no pawents--you know.”
“I know,” added the captain, biting his lip. “But what was the name of the institution?”
“The name?”
“Was it the New York Orphan Asylum, the Leake and Watts Orphan House, or the Colored Orphan Asylum?”
“Colored!” gasped Mr. McGusher. “I’m not a pawson of colaw, Captain Bildaw.”
“Was it either of the other institutions I mentioned?” demanded the ship-master.
“I don’t know, saw,” replied the long-lost, blankly.
“You don’t know?”
“I do not, saw. That lettaw is all the infawmation I have on the subject.”
“How long were you in the asylum?”
“I have no means of knowing.”
“Don’t you remember anything about it?”
“I wemember nothing about it, from which I infaw that I was taken from the institution at a vewy tendaw age.”
“Very tender, I should judge. In a word, Mr. McGusher, I wish to test the truth of the statements in this letter.”
“You are vewy cwitical, Captain Bilder.”
“Critical!” exclaimed the captain, angrily. “Do you think I am going to accept a monkey like you as my son on no better evidence than this letter?”
“Monkey! Is this the weception to give a son, when he comes home to the patawnal woof!” exclaimed Mr. McGusher, utterly disgusted.
“Again: this letter says your father is a very rich man. I want to say now that I have lost all my property. I am hot worth a dollar in the world. If you should prove to be my son, which I grant is possible, you will have to go to work, as I must, and earn your own living.”
Mr. McGusher opened his eyes, and looked more disgusted than ever; but, concluding that the last appalling statement of his “long-lost father” was a joke, intended to test his filial sentiment, he did not retire from the field.