NEARLY eight years from the time Andrew Howland left his home have passed, and we now bring him before the reader as a discharged United States' dragoon, having just concluded a five years' service in the far West. He had enlisted, rather than steal, at a time when he found it impossible to obtain employment, and had gone through the hard and humiliating service of a trooper on our extreme frontier, under an assumed name, omitting to write home during the entire period, lest by any chance a knowledge of his position might be communicated to his mother, and (her memory had never faded) to Emily Winters. The images of these two, the only ones he loved in the world, were green in his bosom. They were drawing him homeward with a force of attraction that grew stronger and stronger as the end of his service approached. Nearly three years had elapsed since he had met any one recently from the East who was able to answer, satisfactorily, the few inquiries he ventured to make; and now he was all impatience to return.
Steadily, for a long time, had the young man looked forward to this period; and in order to have the means of effecting a thorough change in his external appearance, and to be able to support himself after his return East, until he obtained some kind of employment, he had left nearly all his pay in the hands of the disbursing officer. It now amounted to nearly two hundred dollars.
It was in Santa Fe that Andrew obtained his discharge from the United States' service. This was soon after the conclusion of the peace with Mexico, and about the time when the first exciting news came of golden discoveries on the tributaries of the Sacramento.
On the day after Andrew received his discharge, and while making preparations for his journey eastward, a company, in which were several new recruits arrived from the Wachita. Among them he discovered a young man from P—, to whom he put the direct question.
"Do you know a Mr. Howland of your city?"
"Andrew Howland, the merchant?" inquired the young man, who was not over twenty-one years of age.
"Yes," returned Andrew, in a tone of affected indifference.
"His store is in the same block with my father's."
"Indeed! What is your father's name?"
The young man's eyes fell to the ground, and his face became overspread with crimson.
"Winters," he replied, at length recovering himself.
Andrew turned partly away to conceal the sudden emotion this intelligence had created. Mastering his feelings with a vigorous effort, he lifted his eyes to the countenance of the young man and at once recognized in him the brother of Emily. Restraining the eagerness he felt to press many questions, Andrew asked him about his journey from the last military post, and after getting a number of answers to which he scarcely listened, said—
"How long is it since you left P—?"
"About six months," replied young Winters.
"Do your friends know where you are?"
"No, indeed! Nor would I have them. So, please bear that in mind. I answered your question almost on the spur of the moment."
"Do you know anything about Mr. Howland or his family?" asked Andrew, without seeming to notice the young man's remark.
"Nothing very particular; only that the old gentleman failed in business about a year ago."
"Ah! How came that?"
"His son Edward broke him up."
"His son Edward?"
"Yes. The old man set him a going in business; but he soon run himself under, and his father into the bargain. He made a terrible bad failure of it."
"Who?"
"Edward Howland. He went off soon after, and they do say, carried his pockets full of money. And I imagine there is some truth in it. He wasn't exactly the clear grit. Some people called him a smooth-faced hypocrite, and I guess they were not very far wrong."
Andrew asked no more questions for some time, but sat, thoughtful, with his face so far turned away from the young man, that its expression could not be seen.
"Mrs. Howland is living, I presume?" said he, at length, in a tone as indifferent as he could assume; but which was, nevertheless, unsteady.
"Yes. She was living when I came away."
Andrew drew a quick breath, and then his laboring chest found relief in a long expiration.
"Poor old man! I'm sorry for him," came from his lips in a few moments afterwards. The tone was half indifferent, yet expressed some sympathy.
"Everybody seems sorry for him," said Winters. "It has broken him down very much. He looks ten years older."
"Is he entirely out of business?" asked Andrew.
"No; he is still going on; but he doesn't appear to do much. I think the family is poor. They've sold their handsome house, and are living in a much smaller one. I heard father say that Mr. Howland had received an extension from his creditors, but that he was too much crippled to be able to go through, and would, in the end, break down entirely."
There was another pause, and then Andrew changed the subject by asking the young man something about himself, and led on the conversation, from step to step, until he got him to mention the fact that he had a sister named Emily.
"Is she older than yourself?" inquired Andrew.
"Oh, yes. Some four years older," was replied.
"Married, of course," said Andrew.
The very effort he made to say this with seeming unconcern gave so unnatural an expression to his tone of voice, that young Winters looked at him with momentary surprise.
"No, she is not married," he answered.
"She's old enough," said Andrew, speaking now in a tone of more real indifference.
"Yes; but she'll probably die an old maid. She's had two or three good offers; but no one appears just to suit her fancy. Father was very angry about her rejecting a young man some two or three years ago, who afterwards disgraced himself, and broke the heart of a young creature who had been weak enough to marry him."
"Then I should say that your sister was a sensible girl," remarked Andrew, in a cheerful voice.
"Yes, she is a sensible girl; and, what is more, a good girl. Ah, me! I wish I were half as sensible and half as good."
With what a free motion did the heart of Andrew beat after receiving this intelligence!
"Is Mary Howland married?" he asked. He knew that she was, for he had seen the fact noticed in a newspaper.
"Yes; she married a Mr. Markland."
"Who is he?"
"I don't know much about, him. He's a teller in one of the banks."
"How did the family like her marriage?"
"Not at all. They don't visit."
"Indeed! Why?"
"Dear knows! Old Mr. Howland is a hard sort of a man when he takes up a prejudice against any one. He didn't like Markland, and said that Mary shouldn't marry him. She felt differently, and did marry him. The consequence was, that the old man said and did so much that was offensive, that he and Markland have had no intercourse since."
"Mary comes home, I suppose?"
"I rather think not. I believe that she and her father have not spoken in two years. At least, so I heard sister once say."
"That is bad! Poor man! He is unfortunate with his children."
Andrew, as he spoke, felt that he was unfortunate, and an emotion of pity stirred along the surface of his feelings.
"Indeed he is!" said Winters, who was disposed to be communicative. "But I presume it is a good deal his own fault. They say that his harsh treatment drove his oldest son from home."
"Ah?"
"Yes. He was a wild sort of a boy, and his father didn't show him any mercy. The consequence was, that instead of leading him into the right way, he drove him into the wrong way. He ran off from home a great while ago, and has never been heard from since. It is thought that he is dead. I once heard father say that, with all his faults, he was the best of the bunch."
Something interrupted the conversation of the two young men at this point, and they separated. A couple of hours afterward, as Andrew walked along one of the streets of Santa Fe, musing over the intelligence he had gleaned from young Winters, a fellow soldier, whose time of service had also just expired, met him, and said—
"You're not going back to the States, are you?"
"Such has been my intention," replied Andrew.
"I'm not going."
"I thought you were."
"I've altered my mind. A party sets off to-morrow for the gold regions of California, and I'm going with them."
"Indeed! That's a sudden change of resolution. But you don't believe all the stories you hear of this El Dorado?
"No, not all of them. But if even the half be true, there's a golden harvest to be reaped by all who put in the sickle."
"Yes, the half is encouraging enough," said Andrew, in a tone of abstraction. The fact is, since he had heard from home, his desire to return immediately was lessened. News of his father's altered circumstances had softened his feelings toward him very much, and created a strong desire to aid him in the extremity to which he had been reduced. But he had no ability to do this. All he possessed in the world was about two hundred dollars, and it would take at least half of this to pay his passage home. Already had his thoughts been reaching Westward, as the only point where, by any possibility, he could better his fortunes to an extent that would enable him to help his father. But there was so much of apparent romance in the stories that reached his ears, that he had many strong doubts as to even the main facts reported.
"You'd better join us," remarked the comrade.
"How many are going?" inquired Andrew.
"Seven. And we'd very much like to add you to the number."
"I'm really half-inclined to go with you," said Andrew, speaking with a good deal of animation in his voice.
"You'll never regret it," said the other. "Not only are the stories about an abundance of gold authentic, but I have good reasons for believing that the half has not been told. I talked with a man last night, who says that he knew of several instances where lumps of the precious metal, weighing several pounds, have been picked up. One man collected ten thousand dollars worth of lumps of pure gold in a week."
"That's a large story," replied Andrew, smiling.
"Perhaps so; but it is not all a fabrication. At any rate, I am off to this region, and my advice to you is, to join our little party."
"When do you start?
"To-morrow morning."
"I'll think about it," said Andrew Howland.
"You must think quickly," was answered. "There is no time to spare. It is but two hours to nightfall; and we are to be in the saddle by sunrise. So, if you conclude to join our party you have but small space left for preparation."
Andrew stood with his eyes upon the ground for nearly a minute; then looking up, he said, in a firm voice—
"I will go."
"And, my word for it, you'll never repent the decision. Gathering up lumps of gold by the peck is a quicker way to fortune than dragooning it at five dollars a month—ha?"
"My anticipations lie within a much narrower circle than yours," was quietly answered to this; "but one thing is certain, if gold is to be had in California for the mere digging, you may depend on Andrew Howland getting his share of the treasure."
"That's the spirit, my boy!" said the other, clapping him on the shoulder—"the very spirit of every member of our little party. And if we don't line our pockets with the precious stuff, it will be because none is to be found."
On the next morning, Andrew Howland started on his long and perilous journey for the region of gold, with a new impulse in his heart, and a hope in the future, such as, up to this time, he had never known. But it was not a mere selfish love of gold that was influencing him. He was acted on by a nobler feeling.
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