“NICE place? I guess it is; ther hain’t no such farm in this part of Illinoy, nor anywhere else that I knows on. Two-story house, and painted instead of being white-washed; blinds on the winders; no thirty-dollar horses in the barn, an’ no old, unpainted wagons around; no deadened trees standin’ aroun’ in the corn-lot or the wheat-field—not a one. Good cribs to hold his corn, instead of leaving it on the stalk, or tuckin’ it away in holler sycamore logs, good pump to h’ist his drinkin’-water with, good help to keep up with the work—why, ther hain’t a man on Matalette’s whole place that don’t look smart enough to run a farm all alone by himself. And money—well, he don’t ask no credit of no man: he just hauls out his money and pays up, as if he enjoyed gettin’ rid of it. There’s nobody like him in these parts, you can just bet your life.”
The speaker was a Southern Illinoisan of twenty-five years ago, and his only auditor was a brother farmer.
Both worked hard and shook often (with ague) between the seed time and harvest, but neither had succeeded in amassing such comfortable results as had seemed to reward the efforts of their neighbor Matalette. For the listener had not heard half the story of Matalette’s advantages. He was as good-natured, smart and hospitable as he was lucky. He indulged in the unusual extravagance of a hired cook; and the neighbors, though they, on principle, disapproved of such expenditure, never failed to appreciate the results of the said cook’s labors.
Matalette had a sideboard, too, and the contents smelled and tasted very unlike the liquor which was sold at the only store in Bonpas Bottoms.
When young Lauquer, who was making a gallant fight against a stumpy quarter section, had his only horse lie down and die just as the second corn-plowing season came on, it was Matalette who supplied the money which bought the new horse.
When the inhabitants of the Bottoms wondered and talked and argued about the advisability of trying some new seed-wheat, which had the reputation of being very heavy, Matalette settled the whole question by ordering a large lot, and distributing it with his compliments.
Lastly—though the statement has not, strictly speaking, any agricultural bearing—Matalette had a daughter. There were plenty of daughters among the families in Bonpas Bottoms, and many of them were very estimable girls; but Helen Matalette was very different from any of them.
“Always knows just what to say and do,” remarked Syle Conover, one day, at the store, where the male gossips of the neighborhood met to exchange views. “A fellow goes up to see Matalette—goes in his shirt-sleeves, not expectin’ to see any women around—when who comes to the door but her. For a minute a fellow wishes he could fly, or sink; next minute he feels as if he’d been acquainted with her for a year. Hanged if I understand it, but she’s the kind of gal I go in fur!”
The latter clause of Syle’s speech fitly expressed the sentiments of all the young men in Bonpas Bottoms, as well as of many gentlemen not so young.
Old men—farmers with daughters of their own—would cheerfully forego the delights of either a prayer-meeting or a circus, and suddenly find some business to transact with Matalette, whenever there seemed a reasonable chance of seeing Helen; and such of them as had sons of a marriageable age would express to those young men their entire willingness to be promoted to the rank of fathers-in-law.
There was just one unpleasant thing about the Matalettes, both father and daughter, and that was, the ease with which one could startle them.
It was rather chilling, until one knew Matalette well, to see him tremble and start violently on being merely slapped on the shoulder by some one whose approach he had not noticed; it was equally unpleasant for a newcomer, on suddenly confronting Helen, to see her turn pale, and look quickly and furtively about, as if preparing to run.
The editor of the Bonpas Cornblade, in a sonnet addressed to “H. M.,” compared this action to that of a startled fawn; but the public wondered whether Helen’s father could possibly be excused in like manner, and whether the comparison could, with propriety, be extended so as to include the three hired men, who, curiously enough, were equally timorous at first acquaintance.
But this single fault of the Matalettes and their adherents was soon forgotten, for it did not require a long residence in Bonpas Bottoms to make the acquaintance of every person living in that favored section, and strangers—except such passengers as occasionally strolled ashore while the steamboat landed supplies for the store, or shipped the grain which Matalette was continually buying and sending to New Orleans—seldom found their way to Bonpas Bottoms.
The Matalettes sat at supper one evening, when there was heard a knock at the door. There was in an instant an unusual commotion about the table, at which sat the three hired men, with the host and his daughter—a commotion most extraordinary for a land in which neither Indians nor burglars were known.
Each of the hired men hastily clicked something under the table, while Helen turned pale, but quickly drew a small stiletto from a fold of her dress.
“Ready?” asked Matalette, in a low tone, as he took a candle from the table, and placed his unoccupied hand in his pocket.
“Yes,” whispered each of the men, while Helen nodded.
“Who’s there?” shouted Matalette, approaching the outer door.
“I—Asbury Crewne—the new circuit preacher,” replied a voice. “I’m wet, cold and hungry—can you give me shelter, in the name of my Master?”
“Certainly!” cried Matalette, hastening to open the door, while the three hired men rapidly repocketed their pistols, and Helen gave vent to a sigh of relief.
They heard a heavy pack thrown on the floor, a hearty greeting from Matalette, and then they saw in the doorway a tall, straight young man, whose blue eyes, heavy, closely curling yellow hair and finely cut features made him extremely handsome, despite a solemn, puritanical look which not even a driving rain and a cold wind had been able to banish from his face.
There were many worthy young men in the Bonpas Bottoms, but none of them were at all so fine-looking as Asbury Crewne; so, at least, Helen seemed to think, for she looked at him steadily, except when he was looking at her. Of course, Crewne, being a preacher, took none but a spiritual interest in young ladies; but where a person’s face seems to show forth the owner’s whole soul, as was the case with Helen Matalette’s, a minister of the Gospel is certainly justifiable in looking oft and long at it—nay, is even grossly culpable if he does not regard it with a lively and tender interest.
Such seemed to be the young divine’s train of reasoning, and his consequent conclusion, for, from the time he exchanged his dripping clothing for a suit of Matalette’s own, he addressed his conversation almost entirely to Helen. And Helen, who very seldom met, in the Bonpas Bottoms, gentlemen of taste and intelligence, seemed to be spending an unusually agreeable evening, if her radiant and expressive countenance might be trusted to tell the truth.
When the young preacher, according to the custom of his class and denomination, at that day, finally turned the course of conversation toward the one reputed object of his life, it was with a sigh which indicated, perhaps, how earnestly he regretted that the dominion of Satan in the world compelled him to withdraw his soul from such pure and unusual delights as had been his during that evening. And when, after offering a prayer with the family, Crewne followed Matalette to a chamber to rest, Helen bade him good-night with a bright smile which mixed itself up inextricably with his private devotions, his thoughts and his plans for forthcoming sermons, and seriously curtailed his night’s rest in addition.
In the morning it was found that his clothing was still wet, so, as it was absolutely necessary that he should go to fulfil an appointment, it was arranged that he should retain Matalette’s clothing, and return within a few days for his own.
Then Matalette, learning that the young man was traveling his circuit on foot, insisted on lending him a horse, and on giving him money with which to purchase one.
It was a great sum of money—more than his salary for a year amounted to—and the young man’s feelings almost overcame him as he tried to utter his thanks; but just then Helen made her first appearance during the morning, and from the instant she greeted Crewne all thoughts of gratitude seemed to escape his mind, unless, indeed, he suddenly determined to express his thanks through a third party. Such a supposition would have been fully warranted by the expressive looks he cast upon Helen’s handsome face.
Had any member of the flock at Mount Pisgah Station seen these two young people during the moment or two which followed Helen’s appearance, he would have sorrowfully but promptly dismissed from his mind any expectation of hearing the sermon which Crewne had promised to preach at Mount Pisgah that morning. But the young preacher was of no ordinary human pattern: with sorrow, yet determination, he bade Helen good-by, and though, as he rode away, he frequently turned his head, he never stopped his horse.
Down the road through the dense forest he went, trying, by reading his Bible as he rode, to get his mind in proper condition for a mighty effort at Mount Pisgah. He wasn’t conscious of doing such a thing—he could honestly lay his hand on his heart and say he hadn’t the slightest intention of doing anything of the kind, yet somehow his Bible opened at the Song of Solomon. For a moment he read, but for a moment only; then he shut his lips tightly, and deliberately commenced reading the Book of Psalms.
He had fairly restored his mind to working shape, and was just whispering fervent thanks to the Lord, when a couple of horsemen galloped up to him. As he turned his head to see who they might be, he observed that each of them held a pistol in a very threatening manner. As he looked, however, the pistols dropped, and one of the riders indulged in a profane expression of disappointment.
“It’s Matalette’s clothes and horse, Jim,” he said to his companion, “but it’s the preacher’s face.”
“And you have been providentially deferred from committing a great crime!” exclaimed Crewne, with a reproving look. “Mr. Matalette took me in last night, wet, cold, and footsore; this morning I departed, refreshed, clothed and mounted. To rob a man who is so lavish of——”
“Beg your pardon, parson,” interrupted one of the men, “but you haven’t got the right pig by the ear. We’re not highwaymen. I’m the sheriff of this county, and Jim’s a constable. And as for Matalette, he’s a counterfeiter, and we’re after him.”
Crewne dropped his bridle-rein, and his lower jaw, as he exclaimed:
“Impossible!”
“’Tis, eh?” said the sheriff. “Well, we’ve examined several lots of money he’s paid out lately, and there isn’t a good bill among ’em.”
Crewne mechanically put his hands in his pocket and drew forth the money Matalette had given him to buy a horse with. The sheriff snatched it.
“That’s some of his stock?” said he, looking it rapidly over. “That seems good enough.”
“What will become of his poor daughter?” ejaculated the young preacher, with a vacant look.
“What, Helen?” queried the sheriff. “She’s the best engraver of counterfeits there is in the whole West.”
“Dreadful—dreadful!” exclaimed the young preacher, putting his hand over his eyes.
“Fact,” replied the sheriff. “You parsons have got a big job to do ’fore this world’s in the right shape, an’ sheriffs and constables ain’t needed. Wish you good luck at it, though ‘twill be bad for trade. You’ll keep mum ’bout this case, of course. We’ll catch ’em in the act finally; then there won’t be any danger about not getting a conviction, an’ our reward, that’s offered by the banks.”
The sheriff and his assistant galloped on to the village they had been approaching when they overtook Crewne; but the young minister did not accompany them, although the village toward which they rode was the one in which he was to preach that morning.
Perhaps he needed more time and quietness in which to compose his sermon. If this supposition is correct, it may account for the fact that the members of the Mount Pisgah congregation pronounced his sermon that day, from the text, “All is vanity,” one of his most powerful efforts.
In fact, old Mrs. Reets, who had for time immemorial entertained the probable angels who appeared at Mount Pisgah in ministerial guise, remarked that “preacher seemed all tuckered out by that talk; tuk his critter, an’ left town ’fore the puddin’ was done.”
That same evening, the sheriff and his deputy, with several special assistants, rode from Mount Pisgah toward Matalette’s section.
The night was dark, rainy and cloudy; the horses stumbled over roots and logs in the imperfectly made road; the low-hanging branches spitefully cut the faces of the riders, and brought several hats to grief, and snatched the sheriff’s pipe out of his mouth.
And yet the sheriff seemed in excellent spirits. To be sure, he softly whistled the air of, “Jordan is a hard road to travel,” which was the popular air twenty-five years ago, but there was a merry tone to his whistle. He stopped whistling suddenly, and remarked to the constable:
“Got notice to-day of another new counterfeit. Five hundred offered for arrest and conviction on that. Hope we can prove that on Matalette’s gang. We can go out of politics, and run handsome farms of our own, if things go all right to-night. Don’t know but I’d give my whole share, though, to whoever would arrest Helen. It’s a dog’s life, anyhow, this bein’ a sheriff. I won’t complain, however, if we get that gang to-night.”
The party rode on until they were within a mile of Matalette’s section, when they reined their horses into the woods, dismounted, left a man on watch, and approached the dwelling on foot.
Reaching the fence, the party halted, whispered together for a moment, and silently surrounded the house in different directions.
The sheriff removed his boots, walked noiselessly around the house, saw that he had a man at each door and window, and posted one at the cellar-door. Then the sheriff put on his boots, approached the front door, and knocked loudly.
There was no response. The light was streaming brightly from one of the windows, and the sheriff tried to look in, but the thick curtain prevented him. He knocked again, and louder, but still there was no response. Then he became uneasy. He was a brave man when he knew what was to be met, but now all sorts of uncomfortable suspicions crossed his mind; the rascals might be up-stairs waiting for a quiet opportunity to shoot down at him, or they might be under the small stoop on which he stood, and preparing to fire up at him. They might be quietly burning their spurious money up-stairs, so as to destroy the evidence against them; they might be in the cellar burying the plates.
The sheriff could endure the suspense no longer. Signaling to him two of his men, he, with a blow of a stick of wood, broke in the window-sash. As, immediately afterward, he tore aside the curtain, he and his assistance presented pistols and shouted:
“Surrender!”
No one was visible, and the sheriff only concealed his sheepish feelings by jumping into the room. His assistants followed him, and they searched the entire house without finding any one.
They searched the cellar, the outhouses, and the barn, but encountered only the inquiring glances of the horses and cattle. Then they searched the house anew, hoping to find proof of the guilt of Matalette and his family; but, excepting holes in the floor of a vacant room, they found nothing which might not be expected in a comfortable home.
Suddenly some one thought of the boats which Matalette kept at the mouth of the creek, and a detachment, headed by the sheriff, went hastily down to examine them.
The boats were gone—not even the tiniest canoe or most dilapidated skiff remained. It is grievous to relate—but truth is truth—that the sheriff, who was on Sundays a Sabbath-school superintendent, now lost his temper and swore frightfully. But no boats were conjured up by the sheriff’s language, nor did his assistance succeed in finding any up the creek; so the party returned to the house, and resorted to the illegal measure of helping themselves liberally to the contents of Matalette’s sideboard.
Meanwhile a black mass, floating down the Wabash, about a dozen miles below the Bonpas’s mouth, seemed the cause of some mysterious plunging and splashing in the river. Finally an aperture appeared in the black mass, and the light streamed out. Then the figure of a man appeared in the aperture, and all was dark again.
As the figure disappeared within the mass, three bearded men, dressed like emigrants, looked up furtively, one yellow-haired man stared vacantly and sadly into the fire which illumed the cabin of the little trading boat, while Helen Matalette sprang forward and threw her arms about the figure’s neck.
“It’s all gone, Nell,” said the man. “Presses and plates are where nobody will be likely to find them. The Wabash won’t tell secrets.”
“I’m so glad—oh, so glad!” cried the girl.
“It’s a fortune thrown away,” said one of the men, moodily.
“Yes, and a bad name, too,” said she, with flashing eyes.
“We’re beggars for life, anyhow,” growled another of the men.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Matalette. “Nell’s right—if we’re not tracked and caught, I’ll never be sorry that we sunk the accursed business for ever. And, considering our narrow escape, and how it happened, I don’t think we’re very gentlemanly to sit here bemoaning our luck. Mr. Crewne,” continued Matalette, crossing to the yellow-haired figure in front of the fire, “you’ve saved me—what can I give you?”
The young preacher recovered himself, and replied, briefly:
“Your soul.”
Matalette winced, and, in a weak voice, asked:
“Anything else?”
Crewne looked toward Helen; Helen blushed, and looked a little frightened; Crewne blushed, too, and seemed to be clearing his throat; then, with a mighty effort, he said:
“Yes—Helen.”
The counterfeiter looked at his daughter for an instant, and then failed to see her partly because something marred the clearness of his vision just then, and partly because Crewne, interpreting the father’s silence as consent, took possession of the reward he had named, and almost hid her from her father’s view.
Matalette’s section was finally sold for taxes, and was never reclaimed, but the excitement relating to its former occupants was for years so great that the purchasers of the estate found it worldly wisdom to dispense refreshments on the ground.
As for Crewne—a few months after the occurrences mentioned above there appeared, in the wilds of Missouri, a young preacher with unusual zeal and a handsome wife. And about the same time four men entered a quarter section of prairie-land near the young preacher’s station, and appeared then and evermore to be the most ardent and faithful of the young man’s admirers.
