As Peter stood on the uneven bricks of his hearth, looking round atthe disconsolate old kitchen, his eyes began to kindle with theillumination of an enthusiasm that never long deserted him. Heraised his hand, clinched it, and smote it energetically against thesmoky panel over the fireplace.
"The time is come!" said he. "With such a treasure at command, itwere folly to be a poor man any longer. Tomorrow morning I willbegin with the garret, nor desist till I have torn the house down!"Deep in the chimney-corner, like a witch in a dark cavern, sat alittle old woman, mending one of the two pairs of stockingswherewith Peter Goldthwaite kept his toes from being frostbitten. Asthe feet were ragged past all darning, she had cut pieces out of acast-off flannel petticoat, to make new soles. Tabitha Porter was anold maid, upwards of sixty years of age, fifty-five of which she hadsat in that same chimney-corner, such being the length of time sincePeter's grandfather had taken her from the almshouse. She had nofriend but Peter, nor Peter any friend but Tabitha; so long as Petermight have a shelter for his own head, Tabitha would know where toshelter hers; or, being homeless elsewhere, she would take hermaster by the hand and bring him to her native home, the almshouse.
Should it ever be necessary, she loved him well enough to feed himwith her last morsel, and clothe him with her under petticoat. ButTabitha was a queer old woman, and, though never infected with Peter'sflightiness, had become so accustomed to his freaks and follies thatshe viewed them all as matters of course. Hearing him threaten to tearthe house down, she looked quietly up from her work.
"Best leave the kitchen till the last, Mr. Peter," said she.
"The sooner we have it all down the better," said PeterGoldthwaite. "I am tired to death of living in this cold, dark, windy,smoky, creaking, groaning, dismal old house. I shall feel like ayounger man when we get into my splendid brick mansion, as, pleaseHeaven, we shall by this time next autumn. You shall have a room onthe sunny side, old Tabby, finished and furnished as best may suityour own notions.""I should like it pretty much such a room as this kitchen,"answered Tabitha. "It will never be like home to me till thechimney-corner gets as black with smoke as this; and that won't bethese hundred years. How much do you mean to lay out on the house, Mr.
Peter?"
"What is that to the purpose?" exclaimed Peter, loftily. "Did notmy great-granduncle, Peter Goldthwaite, who died seventy years ago,and whose namesake I am, leave treasure enough to build twenty such?""I can't say but he did, Mr. Peter," said Tabitha, threading herneedle.
Tabitha well understood that Peter had reference to an immensehoard of the precious metals, which was said to exist somewhere in thecellar or walls, or under the floors, or in some concealed closet,or other out-of-the-way nook of the house. This wealth, according totradition, had been accumulated by a former Peter Goldthwaite, whosecharacter seems to have borne a remarkable similitude to that of thePeter of our story. Like him he was a wild projector, seeking toheap up gold by the bushel and the cartload, instead of scraping ittogether, coin by coin. Like Peter the second, too, his projects hadalmost invariably failed, and, but for the magnificent success ofthe final one, would have left him with hardly a coat and pair ofbreeches to his gaunt and grizzled person. Reports were various asto the nature of his fortunate speculation: one intimating that theancient Peter had made the gold by alchemy; another, that he hadconjured it out of people's pockets by the black art; and a third,still more unaccountable, that the devil had given him free accessto the old provincial treasury. It was affirmed, however, that somesecret impediment had debarred him from the enjoyment of his riches,and that he had a motive for concealing them from his heir, or atany rate had died without disclosing the place of deposit. The presentPeter's father had faith enough in the story to cause the cellar to bedug over. Peter himself chose to consider the legend as anindisputable truth, and, amid his many troubles, had this oneconsolation that, should all other resources fail, he might build uphis fortunes by tearing his house down. Yet, unless he felt alurking distrust of the golden tale, it is difficult to account forhis permitting the paternal roof to stand so long, since he hadnever yet seen the moment when his predecessor's treasure would nothave found plenty of room in his own strong box. But now was thecrisis. Should he delay the search a little longer, the house wouldpass from the lineal heir, and with it the vast heap of gold, toremain in its burial-place, till the ruin of the aged walls shoulddiscover it to strangers of a future generation.
"Yes!" said Peter Goldthwaite, again, "tomorrow I will set aboutit."The deeper he looked at the matter the more certain of success grewPeter. His spirits were naturally so elastic that even now, in theblasted autumn of his age, he could often compete with the spring-timegayety of other people. Enlivened by his brightening prospects, hebegan to caper about the kitchen like a hobgoblin, with the queerestantics of his lean limbs, and gesticulations of his starvedfeatures. Nay, in the exuberance of his feelings, he seized both ofTabitha's hands, and danced the old lady across the floor, till theoddity of her rheumatic motions set him into a roar of laughter, whichwas echoed back from the rooms and chambers, as if Peter Goldthwaitewere laughing in every one. Finally he bounded upward, almost out ofsight, into the smoke that clouded the roof of the kitchen, and,alighting safely on the floor again, endeavored to resume hiscustomary gravity.
