Edwin Fuller - Sea-gift

“I think he was thrown up by the waves, sir.”

“You didn’t see any tracks or boat marks about?”

“No, sir.”

“That will do. I don’t think it is worth while to examine anymore witnesses. Gentlemen, you can make up your verdict.”

We accordingly left the room, while twelve good citizens endeavored most earnestly to ascertain what they already knew – the manner of the dead man’s death.

When we got out we found Horace waiting for Frank and myself with the carriage and horses.

We packed up our valises, made Ned promise to come to see us, left a kiss for our little foundling, and were soon rolling towards home.

Father and mother were as much interested in my news as I could have desired, and as I dwelt upon the beauty of the little girl and her lonely condition, I saw by the tear in mother’s eye, and the serious shade on father’s face, that I had made an impression. After recounting all in as vivid terms as I could command, I begged father to adopt her, offering as arguments many facts which he perhaps knew as well as I: that he was able to do it; that she would not be a great expense; that she would be company for mother when I was away; that I wanted a sister just like her, and would love and care for her tenderly, and wound up by declaring I would rather starve than have her sent to the Orphan Asylum.

“Well, well, don’t be so impatient, my son,” said father, relapsing into a smile, “even if I were inclined to adopt your suggestion there are many preliminaries to be arranged. I must see Cheyleigh, as she is now under his charge, and I must write to her friends in Cuba, where you say she came from. Then, perhaps, she may not be willing to come and live with us. You will have to restrain your eagerness till your mother and I consult about what is best to be done.”

I was obliged to rest content with this. I went down town in the afternoon and recited to every acquaintance I met our wonderful adventure. The sun was nearly down when I was interrupted in the midst of my narrative by a servant, who came to tell me that there was a lady at home who wished to see me. I wound up my story and hurried home, wondering who it could be. To my utter surprise and pleasure I found Lulie Mayland in the sitting room, looking prettier and brighter than ever. She smiled delightfully when I pressed her hand and said, with a little blush:

“It’s strange, isn’t it, for a lady to call on a gentleman? but you must excuse me now. Pa has just returned from the Sound and has been telling me about the little girl you found. My curiosity was so excited I determined to come to see you and learn all about it, as you would not call and tell me. Promise me you won’t think strange of it.”

“Oh, Lulie, the bare idea of such formality between old friends!” I said, taking a seat near her.

“Well, we will not deem it a breach of form for the sake of old times.”

“What a pity it is,” said I, half musing, “that people grow older and colder in their natures. We were so happy as children. Do you remember the day in the nursery, long ago?”

“Yes, I believe I do; but tell me about your Sound adventure now, I am all impatience to hear that.”

I detailed minutely every circumstance connected with the affair, and dwelt particularly upon the little girl’s superb beauty, hoping thereby to raise a spark of envy in Lulie’s heart, for I was piqued at her only believing to remember about the nursery scene. As I pictured to her the wavy black hair, the gazelle like eyes and chiselled features of Carlotta, I thought I detected a glance towards the opposite mirrors, where her own tumbled curls and merry blue eyes were reflected. When I had concluded she sat for some time in thought, then softly said:

“No father – no mother – no home!”

I knew then that envy found no room in a heart so full of pity and love.

“What is to be done with her?” she said, at length.

“I don’t know; I am trying to get father to adopt her, and I think he is half inclined to do so.”

“Oh, that would be splendid,” she said, brightening at the thought; “I could see her so often, and we would be such dear friends. Do beg Col. Smith to bring her here.”

“You may rest assured I will do my utmost, if it is only to get you over here sometimes, as you now have to make formal explanations for a single visit.”

“Indeed, I expect you have other motives for your petition. Somebody’s heart, perhaps, aids somebody’s lips in begging.”

“Never!” I said, with great emphasis; “she is truly lovely, but there is only one heart in the world I care to – ”

“I am very much obliged to you, Johnnie, for your narration,” she said, rising to go, “it has interested me very much.”

“The obligation is mine,” I said, with a profound bow, “for your kind attention. ‘Twas really a pleasure to talk with such a listener.”

I escorted her home, and sat with her some time on the stoop, and felt more than ever that I was completely her slave. She seemed to have thrown around me an inflexible chain, one which I could not bend to get nearer her heart, and one which I could not break to get away. Every word of her conversation was so chosen that, while it kept alive my hopes, it did not satisfy them, and yet she skilfully permitted no word of love making to pass between us; all was carried on by innuendo; and, when I bade her good evening, I felt convinced that she did not love me, but dreaded to wound me by the disclosure.

“John, I saw Cheyleigh in town to-day, and we have arranged all the matters about bringing up your sister, as I suppose you will call her, to live with us. Your mother and yourself must go down for her in the carriage the day after to-morrow.” Thus spoke father, as he pushed his chair back from the tea table, about a week after my return from the Sound.

I deemed it dignified only to say, “Yes, sir.”

“My dear,” he continued, addressing mother, and taking a cigar from his case, “you have some clothing getting ready for her, have you not? As she didn’t bring her baggage on the door I presume her wardrobe is scanty, so much so that she can exclaim, with the fallen Cardinal:

“Oh, Col. Smith,” said mother, reproachfully, “do not jest at her misfortunes.”

“Not jesting, my dear, not jesting; but, since poor Wolsey’s time, I suppose she is the only one who could boast any integrity, when limited to a single robe. However, we have not proved her yet – Wolsey may still be alone.”

“That is worse than jesting,” returned mother, with a smile the good Samaritan might have worn, “you are blotting her with suspicion before you have ever seen her.”

“We will assume, then, for your good hearted sake,” said father, blowing out the words on each side of the cigar he was lighting, “that she is an angel, and let her prove her wings.”

“I am sure that she will,” said mother, as she rang her table bell for the servants to clear off the tea things.

The next day was one of preparation, and the room intended for Carlotta was fixed up like a fairy bower. The morning after, mother and I were whirling rapidly toward the Sound in our open carriage, the top thrown back to catch the fresh breeze. What a pleasure was such a drive on such a morning, with such horses, through such scenery, on such an errand!

Neither of us spoke, but leaned upon the side cushions of the carriage, listening to the rapid trample of the horses’ feet and the singing of the wheels over the level roads as we flashed along; now through slim, quiet woods, where the sunshine drove away the shade from half the ground; now through thick luxuriant trees, grouping themselves with dense foliage-curtains around dark unrippled pools, where Artemis could have bathed with perfect modesty, and from which, now, a lonely heron, startled by our wheels, slowly rose with his blue noiseless wings; now through a swampy hollow, where the laurel poured from its white cups exquisite perfume, and now through the solemn forests, where the patriarch oaks waved their gray moss-hair, and the towering pines stretched their broad arms benignly over all, as if to invoke a blessing from the blue heavens above.