"Poor fellow!" thought Mr. John Brown. "Poor, crackbrained PeterGoldthwaite! For old acquaintance' sake, I ought to have taken carethat he was comfortable this rough winter."These feelings grew so powerful that, in spite of the inclementweather, he resolved to visit Peter Goldthwaite immediately. Thestrength of the impulse was really singular. Every shriek of the blastseemed a summons, or would have seemed so, had Mr. Brown beenaccustomed to hear the echoes of his own fancy in the wind. Muchamazed at such active benevolence, he huddled himself in his cloak,muffled his throat and ears in comforters and handkerchiefs, and, thusfortified, bade defiance to the tempest. But the powers of the air hadrather the best of the battle. Mr. Brown was just weathering thecorner, by Peter Goldthwaite's house, when the hurricane caught himoff his feet, tossed him face downward into a snow bank, and proceededto bury his protuberant part beneath fresh drifts. There seemed littlehope of his reappearance earlier than the next thaw. At the samemoment his hat was snatched away, and whirled aloft into some fardistant region, whence no tidings have as yet returned.
Nevertheless Mr. Brown contrived to burrow a passage through thesnow-drift, and, with his bare head bent against the storm, flounderedonward to Peter's door. There was such a creaking and groaning andrattling, and such an ominous shaking throughout the crazy edifice,that the loudest rap would have been inaudible to those within. Hetherefore entered, without ceremony, and groped his way to thekitchen.
His intrusion, even there, was unnoticed. Peter and Tabitha stoodwith their backs to the door, stooping over a large chest, which,apparently, they had just dragged from a cavity, or concealedcloset, on the left side of the chimney. By the lamp in the oldwoman's hand, Mr. Brown saw that the chest was barred and clamped withiron, strengthened with iron plates and studded with iron nails, so asto be a fit receptacle in which the wealth of one century might behoarded up for the wants of another. Peter Goldthwaite was inserting akey into the lock.
"O Tabitha!" cried he, with tremulous rapture, "how shall Iendure the effulgence? The gold! the bright, bright gold! Methinks Ican remember my last glance at it, just as the iron-plated lid felldown. And ever since, being seventy years, it has been blazing insecret, and gathering its splendor against this glorious moment! Itwill flash upon us like the noonday sun!""Then shade your eyes, Mr. Peter!" said Tabitha, with somewhat lesspatience than usual. "But, for mercy's sake, do turn the key!"And, with a strong effort of both hands, Peter did force therusty key through the intricacies of the rusty lock. Mr. Brown, in themeantime, had drawn near, and thrust his eager visage between those ofthe other two, at the instant that Peter threw up the lid. No suddenblaze illuminated the kitchen.
"What's here?" exclaimed Tabitha, adjusting her spectacles, andholding the lamp over the open chest. "Old Peter Goldthwaite's hoardof old rags.""Pretty much so, Tabby," said Mr. Brown, lifting a handful of thetreasure.
Oh, what a ghost of dead and buried wealth had Peter Goldthwaiteraised, to scare himself out of his scanty wits withal! Here was thesemblance of an incalculable sum, enough to purchase the whole town,and build every street anew, but which, vast as it was, no sane manwould have given a solid sixpence for. What then, in sober earnest,were the delusive treasures of the chest? Why, here were oldprovincial bills of credit, and treasury notes, and bills of land,banks, and all other bubbles of the sort, from the first issue,above a century and a half ago, down nearly to the Revolution. Billsof a thousand pounds were intermixed with parchment pennies, and worthno more than they.
"And this, then, is old Peter Goldthwaite's treasure!" said JohnBrown. "Your namesake, Peter, was something like yourself; and, whenthe provincial currency had depreciated fifty or seventy-five percent, he bought it up in expectation of a rise. I have heard mygrandfather say that old Peter gave his father a mortgage of this veryhouse and land, to raise cash for his silly project. But thecurrency kept sinking, till nobody would take it as a gift; andthere was old Peter Goldthwaite, like Peter the second, with thousandsin his strong box and hardly a coat to his back. He went mad uponthe strength of it. But, never mind, Peter! It is just the sort ofcapital for building castles in the air.""The house will be down about our ears!" cried Tabitha, as the windshook it with increasing violence.
"Let it fall!" said Peter, folding his arms, as he seated himselfupon the chest.
"No, no, my old friend Peter," said John Brown. "I have houseroom for you and Tabby, and a safe vault for the chest of treasure.
Tomorrow we will try to come to an agreement about the sale of thisold house. Real estate is well up, and I could afford you a prettyhandsome price.""And I, observed Peter Goldthwaite, with reviving spirits, "havea plan for laying out the cash to great advantage.""Why, as to that," muttered John Brown to himself, "we must applyto the next court for a guardian to take care of the solid cash; andif Peter insists upon speculating, he may do it, to his heart'scontent, with old PETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE."THE END.
1844
TWICE-TOLD TALES
RAPPACCINI'S DAUGHTER
by Nathaniel Hawthorne
