The Sailor's Return

When the irrepressible American bored down a thousand feet into the heart of Pennsylvania and extracted fabulous quantities of oil, and when the Jadies became content with steel stripes tor corsets instead of whalebone- then one of the greatest and most adventurous of the industries of New England received its death-blow. Our story relates to the time when there was bustle and business in an ancient and historie seaport, where now niay be seen rotting wharves and tumble-down warehouses; when a dozen sea-going vessels were in the harbor where one is now seen; when the staunch whale-ships went out on their long voyages, and came back laden with the wealth that made the prosperity of the port; when sailors and sailors' families made up a large share of the population and the old town really seemed to belong less to the land than to the sea. All this has changed; and the incidents we relate could hardly occur there now. But human lives and human hopes and fears, happiuess and miseiy, are much the same where. Well back from the harbor, the wharves and the busy part of the town, in that outskirt of it that was built on the rising ground that overlooked the town, bay and ocean, Captain Benson had his cottage. He was at home very little of the time; but when he was he loved a place like this, commanding a wide view of the ocean-rim, where he could sit at the window by the hour and with his good glass discover the first indication of sails approaching the coast. He was a veteran whaler. and had for fully flfty years pursued the business on all seas. For the last two years he had commanded the whale-ship "Chevalier." On his last voyage out he had said to his wife: "It'll be the last, Nancy. Let me go once more to the South Pacific and fill the old ship with oil, and then I'll stay here and pass the rest of my days with you and Thankful. Jack Sturdy, my mate, will then be master - he's a fine fellow, Thankful; I must biing him here to see you." Then the old captain looked from his wife to his daughter and added the droll remark: "For my part, I'm beginning to think it's time I was better acquainted with you two." He went to sea again, but he never returned. A year later the eyes of the wife and daughter were gladdened by the sight of the "Chevalier" sailing into the bay. But instead of him they eagerly watched for, the mate came up, slowly and sorrowfully, to teil them that the captain had died of fever in Callao, and was buried there. John Sturdy was now captain, and was busy enough overhauling the ship, picking his crew and making all ready for his first voyage in command of the ship. But it was noticed that after every thing had been done for the wife and daughter which the dying captain had requested, after their grief had Bomewhat subsided, Captain Sturdy still climbed the hill to the cottage at least three times a week. Presently the gossips of the neighborhood began to hint that Thankful Benson could teil why he carne so of ten; and not more than three months had passed since he first carne when Mrs. Benson silenced them all with the plain statement: "Thero neecln'tbe any mysteryabout it; Thankful and Captain Sturdy are engaged, and will be married as soon as a proper respect for the memory of her father will allow. It'll probably be at the end of the "Chevalier's" next voyage. John Sturdy was an experienced seamaji of thirty-five - fifteen years older than Thankful - to whom his ship had been his world, and to whom ideas of love and marri&ge had appeared idle myths. He met Thankful Benson for the first time when she fainted in hia fcrms upon his distressing errand to tb. cottage. She had grown upon his fancy with every visit and bis heart was quickly offered. With her it was a case of first love. He was all that her girlish imagination required. And when he took the girl by the hand and asked the widow for her consent she smiled and sighed all at once. "O, it's well enough, Thankful," she said, "if you must marry a sailor," but I was in hopes you WOttldn't let jour affections go seafaring." "It's the way of our faruily, you know, mother," and the daughter siniled and looked up to her sailor trustfully. "Indeed it Is, and a sorry and heartbreaking way it has been for the women. Not only in our family, but in all the seamen's families is it true. Forthirty years I've known this port, and of all its sailors that have died in that time not one out of for has died in his bed. But the Lord wills it, and may you be happy." "When I knew I was to be master of the 'Chevalier,' " said John Sturdy, "I did not think I should quit her for ten years at least I'm a sailor, and love the sea, with all its perils; but now, if Thankful asks me to quit it for her, I'm ready." "Indeed, then, I do ask you." "But only at the end of this voyage. My word has been given to the owners, and I can not break it The time will be short; let us live in hope of it" "Ah, this one last voyage!" sighed Mrs. Benson ruefully. "Pray God it may fare better than that other last voyage." The "Chevalier" sailed in March. The parting was a hard one; quite as hard to the man as to the muid. It need not be told why it was hard for her to give her young love's dream to the cruel chances of the sea; of him it must be said that, as love came late, it came strong as well. 'Don't go, Jack," she pleaded amid her sobs. "I know it's selfish, but I can't help it. Don't leave me. I shall never see you again if you do." Her distress, her unbounded love appealed to him powerfully. His resolution was severely shaken. Nothing but the sailor's ingrained honor and habitual self-discipline held him back as he said: "For heaven's sake, Thankful, don't tempt me that wayfrom duty! I leave you only because I must; but the time will be short. All our arrangements are for a short voyage; expect me back by the next New Year. I shall hasten every thing for your sake." She went to a sleepless bed that night. In the morning her father's glass showed her the Chevalier far out at sea. For many days she went about heavy hearted. Her mother watched and pitied her and her own heart bied afresh. But youth is the season of hope and love is its twin, and, as the months of that spring and summer went by, the girl feit more and more as though she were only enduring a brief probation to lifelong happiness. News had reached her of the Chevalier and her beloved. First came a letter fromKio, f uil of love and promise; then an incoming whaler reported speaking the Chevalier in the far South Atlantic, and that all on board were well, and then a letter from Lima. All was well, time was flying, the promised time for the reunión was approaching. There is rarely, yet sometimes, a New England autumn when the mellow Indian summer is prolonged from November far into December, and the year fades away in days of vailed sunshine; when nature seems in a dream and winter is held back by some strange spell. It was so this year. Down to the flrst day of January there was neither snow nor f rost; a silvery mist sat upon the sea; the days were like May days, but with a softened, tempered sun; the nights were balmy and glorious. As Thankful and her mother sat outside the cottage they could see the lights from the towa and the bay. The sounds of laughter and talking came np to them; every thing seemed ander a spell. So it was on that New Year's Ere. They satthei-e late talking of the dead - of the absent - hardly daring to talk of the future. The night was bright and starlight; every thing was visible, yet indistinct, At that place and time nobody had been abroad for an liour. All were at home keeping New Year's Eve. Just then Thankf ui direeted her rnother's attention to a figure advancing slowly up tlie slope toward the cottage. "Where?" asked Mrs. Benson. "I don't see it." "Why, there!" said Thankful, with outstretched fingen "It's a man. He's coming this way. He - he looks like Jack." She started up and advanced to meet him. Mrs. Benson strained her eyes, but could see nothing like a human figure. She saw Thankful advance a few paces, stretch out hor arms as if to embrace some one, and then fall senseless to the ground. When Mrs. Benson carried her in and revived her, she started up and cried for Jack. "Mydear child, be mimi" said the mother. "Ho is not here. He has not been here." "Yes, yes!- he was! I saw him - I almost touched him. He came close up to me - and then he disappeared, and I could not see him." The mother looked at her with grief and awe. "Dear Thankful," she said with deep solemnity, "bo strong - cast your burden on the Lord - and bear your grief as I have borne mine. You have not seen John Sturdy; you have seen his doublé. You will never see him again," For the next year their lives went on with that sense of chastened sorrow that possesses those whose only hop in this world is reit away. Mother and daughter drew closer together in their companionship of bereavement. Life for them was all in the past; theii present comfort was merely that of ministering angels to the sick and affiicted; andthus to " learn the luxury of dolng good." The only news that had been received from the "Chevalier" was darkly confirmatory of the visión that Thankful had seen. One of the boats had been found flonting in the South Pacific enipty and oarless. A ship wiapped in fire from stem to stern had been sighted afar off in those waters, where help could not be expected or inquiry made. They lived on during that year, and sorrow grew old and was still as dark as ever. Their neighbors condoled with them, and hoped that the time would come when grief would be calmed, and that life might yet have some pleasure for these afflicted ones. Would that time ever come to Thankful? Not, surely, at such a time as this. when the New Year was again at hand. It could bring no hope nor promise to her; but the time, as long as she should live, must be in her mind associated with his last words to her: "Expect me back by the next New Year; I shall hasten every thing for your sake." It was a very different New Year's Eve from the last. The harbor was locked in ice; a snow covered the ground; the air was stinging with frost. A clear sound of bells from the town, as the New Year was gleefully rung in, carne up to them as they sat by their fire. No speech had passed between them for an hour. As the last peal of the bells died away, Mrs. Benson said: "It is all hard to bear, Thankful. We must learn to bear." The girl started up with clasped hands, and passionately exclaimed: "But never to see him again - though I ruay live for fifty years! I can't endure the thought He carne to me once after death- why not again?" The door noiselessly unclosed and admitted a moving figure. It advanced toward them; they looked at the face, spell-bound. It wasyale, wan, wasted, but it bore the likeness of John Sturdy. No womanly fright, no terror of the supernatural possessed Thankful in that moment Glad to have seen his face again in answer to her appeal, her loving, yearning heart hungered for something more than his shadow. She started toward him - she opened wide her arms to him. "O, John," she said, "don't do as you did before! You said you would come back at this time." Her loving arms encircled him. Thank God, it was not a shadow - it was John Sturdy, weak, sick, feeble- but it was he. They had the happiest kind of a New Year, after all. When the first greetings were over. and Mrs. Benson had refreshed him with tea and he and Thankful sat side by side, hand in hand. inexpressibly glad, for want of words - then he told the story of his adventures and escapes, by sea and land, out of all of which he had been saved tothem. Some day he will teil it in print. It is too long to teil here. When he had finished, Mrs. Benson asked: "Where were you a year ago to-night, John? Thankful thought she saw you." He looked inquiringly at his betrothed. She told him all. "That was the night," hesaid, "when the officers and crew of the poor burning 'Chevalier' took to the boats in a heavy sea. One boat was swamped before my eyes and all in it weredrowned. Ours rolled and pitched so heavily in the chopping waves that I expected we, too, should perish. It was just there, while I was hopelessly directing the men at the oars, that a visión carne before my eyes of the harbor here- of the town and this cottage. I saw you both, and Thankful held out her arms to me. F rom that instant I knew we should be reunited. Yes, I knew it, and 1 cherished the belief and hugged it to my heart in all the dangers and labors that have beset me since." -