The Bolivar Bulletin

Near noon, the 5th of September, 1852, a man laboring under great excitement was walking hurriedly up Broadway, New York. His features were flushed and convulsed, his glances wild and restless, his whole mien indicative of keen anguish.

Turning to the right into Bleecker street, he soon reached a plain three story and basement brick house, to which he gave himself admittance.

"Are you there, Ruth?" he called from the hall.

A step was heard overhead, followed by the rustling of a dress, and a young lady descended the front stairs. Despite several points of marked contrast, there was a family likeness about the couple that proclaimed them to be brother and sister.

"Why, what's the matter, Luke?" cried the latter, starting at sight of the disturbed countenance that met her view. "Are you ill?"

"I've just received bad news," replied the brother, leading the way into the parlor—"news which has given me a terrible shock."

"Shocked? You! What has happened?"

"In a word, Clara Aymar is married!"

"Married!" echoed the sister, recoiling. "Clara Aymar married! Is it possible?"

"Yes, married! the girl I've been laying siege to for years past—the only one I ever had a pin for. Imagine the shock this event gives me. I'm nearly crazy."

"Then you really loved her?"

"Loved her! I must have worshipped her, or else this thing would not have so completely upset me."

"Oh, as to that, the loss of a thing always gives us an exaggerated notion of its value," said the sister philosophically, as she sank languidly into an easy chair, and smoothed out a fold in her showy morning robe. "You are simply shocked, as you say. But by to-morrow you will laugh at the whole matter."

"Don't Ruth!" implored the brother, sinking heavily into the nearest chair. "Clara Aymar is more to me than my life! My love for her is a delirium! It's no such passing fancy as you suppose, but an everlasting passion—a rage—a flood of molten lava! And I've counted all along upon marrying her. True, she has rejected me twice, but I thought she'd change her mind."

"She was in no way committed to you?"

"No, of course not. She has never given me any encouragement. But I am none the less surprised. I supposed that everything was favorable enough to my wishes. I knew that she was still young to marry—an orphan—without money and without friends—presumably without suitors: and I flattered myself that she couldn't always remain insensible to my attentions."

"You reasoned wisely enough, of course, Luke; but reason never decides these matters," declared the sister, with a sort of contemptuous compassion. "A whim—a chance meeting—a smile or a word—a moment's weakness—any trifle—these are the things by which marriages are brought about. But who is the bridegroom?"

"Ah! that's a point that will touch you a little, I think. Can't you guess who he is?"

"I haven't the least idea."

"Well, then, he's Will Hawley."

The sister sprang abruptly to her feet, clasping both hands to her heart. The changing colors of her brother, his agitation, his anguish, all passed to her own features.

"Will Hawley?" she gasped. "Oh, you don't mean it, Luke!"

"But I do though. It's God's truth. Clara Aymar and Will Hawley are husband and wife."

A heavy fall succeeded. The sister had fainted. She lay upon the floor as one dead.

"Did she think that much of Hawley?" muttered the brother, astonished. "I didn't suppose"

He hastened to bring a pitcher of water and bathe the white features, and then set himself to chafing the clenched hands.

Capt. Luke Pedder was twenty-seven years of age, with an originally light complexion, which had reddened with generous living and bronzed with exposure to wind and sun. His form was of the average size and height, and his features of the most ordinary type. He was singularly selfish and unscrupulous, but of gentlemanly manners, being well educated and used to good society. His ability as a navigator was fair for a man of his age and experience, but he owed his position as commander of a fine Australian clipper, more to respect for his late father and to sympathizing favor than to his own merits.

Miss Ruth Pedder was two years younger than her brother, and consequently twenty-five years of age, although she owned to only twenty. She was tall, thin, and a little inclined in her outlines, as in her temper, to angularity. She was not particularly bright, but she was bold and unscrupulous, and possessed a fierce energy which was capable of compensating in an emergency for lack of genius.

The father of the couple had been a prominent ship-owner and merchant. But in his latter days the senior Pedder had been unfortunate and had finally been broken up completely—a result hastened, it was whispered, by the wily ways and financial irregularities of his son. The old man's failure had soon been followed by his death, and already—for such is fame!—he was generally forgotten.

"How odd it is!" ejaculated Capt. Pedder, as he rubbed his sister's cold hands. "She madly in love with Will Hawley, and I crazy after Clara Aymar! And now Will and Clara are married, and Ruth and I are left out in the cold."

Under the vigorous treatment he had adopted, Miss Pedder soon recovered her senses.

"Are you sure they're married?" she demanded.

"Perfectly. I learned the fact half an hour since from Hawley's commander—Captain Greggs, you know. Captain Greggs was at the wedding. It took place last Friday evening—the very evening after Hawley's return from his last voyage to Rio. It was a quiet affair. Only a few friends were invited. But let me ask you a question. Did Hawley ever propose to you?"

"No. But I expected that he would soon do so. He has been here often enough."

"Yes, he came several times to ask me for a berth in my clipper. I promised to think of him at the first opening, and I really meant to help him, for I knew in a general way that you liked him."

"I thought he'd realize that you could be of service to him," explained Miss Pedder. "I thought he'd remember that mother left me this house and a few thousand dollars to do as I pleased with. I was conscious, too, that I possessed a fair share of personal attractions. And as I supposed him to be entirely heart-free, I took it for granted that I should get him. His attentions seemed marked enough."

"He treated you politely, of course," interrupted Pedder, "and he couldn't have well done less, after asking me to befriend him. But he never made any formal declaration?"

"No, he didn't. As mate of a Rio ship, he was away seven-eighths of the time, and I didn't expect a regular courtship. But I took it for granted."

Pedder made an impatient gesture.

"We've deceived ourselves," he muttered. "We've been carried away by our feelings. The girl's rejection of me was really intended to be final, and Hawley's visits here were merely visits of business and friendship. But why Clara should prefer Hawley to me I can't imagine," added Pedder, drawing himself up haughtily.

"Hawley has neither name, nor money, nor position!"

"Nor can I see why Hawley should prefer Clara Aymar to me!" said Miss Pedder, as she glanced at her reflection in one of the long mirrors near her. "She's a hired attendant, or something of that kind—the creature."

"I had no idea that you thought so much of Hawley," observed the brother, as he strove to calm his painful emotions.

Miss Pedder moaned. Her eyes filled with tears.

"I thought all the world of him," she murmured.

A long silence fell between the couple.

"Well, well, they're husband and wife," at length muttered Pedder hoarsely. "And this, I suppose, is all there is to be said."

Miss Pedder compressed her lips until they bled, staring at her brother with a fixedness amounting to ferocity.

"No! no!" she breathed fiercely. "The matter shall not end here. That marriage—that abominable marriage—"

She clutched at her heart again, as if suffocating.

Pedder opened his eyes widely.

"Why, what can we do?" he queried. "You wouldn't have me murder Hawley, I suppose? That wouldn't make him your husband. And on the other hand, it wouldn't do me any good if you were to kill Clara Aymar."

"But there is a way, Luke, of undoing that marriage."

Pedder started toward his sister, as if electrified.

"Do you mean it?" he demanded.

"I mean it, and I swear it! I'll never consent to that girl's having Hawley! I'll dig a gulf between them as broad as the ocean! I'll undo that marriage, or die!"

"Softly! Where is Kate?"

He referred to their single servant.

"She's out for the day," answered Miss Pedder, arising and planting herself in a chair. "There was little to do, you know, as I did not expect you home until dinner."

He drew a chair nearer to that of his sister and sat down beside her.

"What's your idea?" he asked, in a whisper.

"My idea is to separate them; to turn their love to hate; to dig a pit beneath their feet that will remain open forever!"

"But how?"

"Will Hawley is poor, isn't he?"

"Certainly; there is no mistake about that. His mother was a helpless invalid for the last ten years of her life, and Will insisted on his using for her comfort every penny he earned. It hasn't been six months since he was relieved of that burden. He's poor, therefore, as you say—poor as Job's turkey!"

"Then he'll have to leave his darling Clara," sneered Miss Pedder venomously. "He'll have to absent himself from his deary in order to earn that mutual bread and butter. In short, he'll have to go to sea again."

"Well yes. I suppose he will," assented Pedder. "He can get better wage at sea than elsewhere. He'll sail again soon, no doubt."

"I thought as much. And the sea is full of terrible dangers. When do you sail for Australia?"

"In about two weeks—possibly in ten days, as the ship's filling up rapidly."

"Hawley is thoroughly competent to be your first mate?"

Pedder looked wonderingly at his sister a moment, and then answered:

"Of course. I know of no better man for the post."

"He must be your first mate, then. You have influence enough with your owners, I hope, to turn out the present incumbent?"

"Why, the post is already vacant. Mr. Jarding—you have seen him—Mr. Jarding has just been called home suddenly to Ohio, on account of his father's illness—"

"Good! That's fortunate. You must recommend Hawley for the vacant place to your owners, and get them to engage him. The thing can be done?"

"Without the least doubt. It was understood, you know, as I just now remarked, that I was to help Hawley at the first opportunity. We'll accordingly suppose that he sails with me as first mate the next voyage. What then?"

"You must leave him—not dead, but a prisoner—on some desert island between here and Australia!"

Pedder looked his astonishment.

"If it can be done," he said, after a pause, "what next?"

"You must come back and report that he is dead, furnishing full details and good proofs. Those details and proofs will not be difficult to manufacture. Then you must be all kindness and sympathy to the young widow, as she will suppose herself to be, and in less than a year thereafter she will be your wife."

"Oh, if this thing were possible!" sighed Pedder, beginning to look relieved.

"Possible? It's as simple as kissing. And the moment you are married to Clara, I will take a trip to Australia for my health, and naturally enough, stumble upon the very island where you have left Hawley; effect his rescue; tell him his wife is dead: condole and sympathize with him like an angel; and conclude the whole comedy by becoming his wife and settling in Australia. You'll thus have your Clara, on this side of the ocean, and I shall be happy with Hawley on the other."

She was smiling now, with every sign of anticipated triumph.

As to Pedder he twisted nervously in his chair, scarcely venturing to breathe.

"There's just one difficulty," he muttered—"that of getting Hawley on the desert island without his suspecting anything."

"It can be done," and the lips of Miss Pedder came together like the jaws of a vice.

"There's no difficulty about finding a suitable island?"

"Not the least. I saw the island in my mind's eye the moment you uttered the word, and a glorious one it is for our purpose."

"It will be easy for you to get Hawley upon it," suggested Miss Pedder thoughtfully. "If it's near your route, you can call there for water. If it's out of your way, you can be blown there by adverse winds, or be drifted there by unknown currents, or fetch up there by a mistake in your reckoning or a fault in your chronometer. And once there, you can have Hawley seized by some trusty agent, while he is ashore upon business, or you can send him ashore under some pretence, such as looking for a deserter from the ship or for a shipwrecked sailor, and then sail away without him—"

"Say no more," interrupted Pedder, with wild exultation. "I see how to manage the affair from its beginning to its end."

"And you now see that we can undo that hateful marriage?"

"Perfectly—perfectly. The affair will require a little time and patience, of course, and a little expenditure of money, but we are sure to triumph. Capital! glorious! What a load you have taken from my soul, Ruth! What a genius you are!"

He leaped to his feet and began pacing to and fro rapidly, with the most extravagant signs and exclamations of joy!

"First to get Hawley on his island," resumed Miss Pedder musingly. "Next for you to marry the pretended widow. Then for me to rescue the prisoner and marry him. And finally for you and me to be happy, you in your way, and I in mine—you with Clara in New York, and I with Will in Australia. You comprehend the whole project clearly?"

"From the first step to the last. There's only just one possibility of failure—"

"And that one?"

"A refusal on Hawley's part to accept the post offered him—a refusal based upon his marriage."

Miss Pedder turned pale at the thought. But he won't refuse," she soon declared recovering her equanimity. "He has long been wanting just such a place. Married or single, he can't neglect his bread and butter."

"Well said, Ruth. I think we can count upon him. The post he came here to ask me for is now vacant, and I will accordingly have it offered to him, just as if nothing had happened."

"Exactly. You needn't speak of his marriage, or seem to know anything about it. You can simply offer him the post in question, in accordance with the old understanding. And he will accept it. He can't possibly have any suspicion of anything wrong. Outwardly and apparently we are all on good terms with one another, and will remain so. Let the wages offered him be liberal. Possibly he may object to leaving his young bride so soon, but the next voyage after this one—"

Pedder interrupted the remark by a gesture of impatience. He was all eagerness now—all determination.

"That next voyage after this one will not answer," he declared. "Hawley shall accompany me on my very next trip. To make all sure on this point, I will have him engaged this very day. In fact I will see to this now."

He seized his hat and gloves, addressed a few words to his sister, and quietly took his departure down town. The last glances the couple exchanged at the door were full of jubilant wickedness.

The next three or four hours passed slowly to Miss Pedder. She was beginning to fear that the whole project had miscarried at its very commencement, and was fretting herself into a fever, when Pedder suddenly made his appearance. One glance at his vivid flushes, at his dancing eyes, at his airy manner, was sufficient.

"We triumph then?" she cried, throwing herself into his arms for the first time in years.

"Completely! I saw my owners on the subject, and they sent for Hawley. He at first offered some objections, as was natural, but the high wages, the great step upward, the kindly interest we all manifested, soon brought him to a grateful acceptance!"

"Splendid!" murmured Miss Pedder, with a rippling laugh. "I knew the thing was feasible. And so in two weeks more our fond bridegroom will be plowing the sea again—"

"In two weeks more, Ruth? We shall be off in six or eight days. The cargo is fairly tumbling aboard the Flying Childers, to say nothing of a fair list of passengers. The honey moon of our loving doves will be abridged to six short days more, you may be certain.

CHAPTER II.

A GREAT STEP TAKEN.

In the midst of the Antarctic ocean a little off the route from New York to Australia, there lies a large island named Kerguelen's Land, or—as Capt. Cook called it—the Island of Desolation.

It was discovered just a hundred years ago, (in 1772,) by the French naval officer whose name it bears. It was uninhabited then, and is to-day as deserted as ever.

The smallest school-boy among our readers can find it upon his map of the world, about midway between the south end of Africa and Australia, well up toward the South Pole.

It is a hundred miles in length by fifty in breadth, and is consequently three or four times as large as Rhode Island.

Its coasts are so wild and dangerous that its discoverer, during the two expeditions that he made to it, did not once bring his ships to anchor in any of its bays and harbors.

Its shape is very irregular, but something like that of an hour-glass, it being nearly cut in two by a couple of large bays; but these two divisions are unequal in size, the northern peninsula being much larger than the southern.

Its coast line is wildly broken and jagged, its innumerable gulfs being long and narrow, and its promontories are correspondingly sharp and slender, reaching out into the ocean like fingers.

The body of the island indeed resembles that of some huge monster of the antediluvian world even as its capes and headlands resemble such a monster's unsightly limbs and claws.

A more terrific solitude than this isle of Desolation does not exist upon our wrecked planet. Neither the snows of Himalaya nor the sands of Sahara can outvie its terrors.

No inhabitant is there, not even a savage—no house, no tree, no shrub, no fence nor road, no field nor garden, no horse, no dog—not even a snake or a wolf.

Lone, blasted and barren, it looks like the skeleton of a land that has perished.

It may indeed be that Desolation is the relic—the surviving fragment of a continent that went down here ages ago, with hosts of inhabitants, in some vast convulsion of nature.

It has certainly undergone dreadful visitations; been rent by earthquakes, pulverized by frosts, lashed and wasted by fierce tempests.

Its mountains are only of moderate height, but are capped eternally with snow.

Its vegetation is limited to a few dwarfish plants, including some mosses, a species of lichen, a coarse grass, a plant resembling a small cabbage, and a sort of cress.

Its winds are raw and piercing, its summers cold and frosty, its winters those of the Polar Circles.

The interior of the island is occupied by immense boggy swamps, where the ground sinks at every step.

The rains in Desolation are almost incessant, in their season, and the island is accordingly veined with numerous torrents of fresh water, some of which have worn out of the solid rock tremendous cavities and gullies. The only other season than that of the rains is one of almost constant snow.

The fogs of that ghastly region are well worthy of the rains, being of a cloud-like density, and hovering almost continually over the whole face of the island.

The sun of Desolation is usually hidden by a canopy of lead-colored clouds, and appears, on the rare occasions when visible, scarcely brighter than the moon in other latitudes.

As to the moon itself, and the stars, the clouds and fogs rarely permit them to betray their existence.

No fish worthy of note, not even fishes of prey, abound in the adjacent waters, by reason, perhaps, of their containing poisonous minerals, or deadly exhalations from the volcanic fires beneath them.

Yet the dark grim sea enclosing Desolation has done something to repair the sterility of the island.

Penguins, ducks, gulls, cormorants and other marine birds are plentiful in some of its harbors.

Seals also abound.

Strange and terrible land!

Not a single human being, so far as is known, has ever lived there, save as is now to be recorded in these pages.

Near the middle of a dull, dismal afternoon, some eleven weeks later than the date of the preceding events, the good ship Flying Childers drew near to the island of Desolation, shaping her course toward its northernmost bay, called by Captain Cook, Christmas Harbor.

A fair breeze was blowing from the North, and the ship was carrying every stitch of her canvas, including studding-sails.

Her crew—both watches—were busy about the deck, and her passengers—a score in number—had gathered in groups, mostly forward, and were gazing with great interest upon the wild, rugged shores before them, so far as the fog suspended upon those shores permitted them to become visible.

The ship had come here for water, nearly all her water casks having been stove or started during a squall ten days previously, and every soul aboard of her having been since that date upon short allowance.

Upon the quarter-deck stood Capt. Luke Pedder, looking unusually happy, with Will Hawley beside him.

"I mean to get our water aboard before dark, Captain Pedder, and so avoid losing a night here," said the young executive, totally unconscious of the plot to leave him alone on the desolate island, and of the extraordinary adventures which were before him. The strange events that happened there, and indeed the whole of this thrilling story, will be found only in the New York Ledger, which is now ready and for sale at all the book-stores and news-depots. Ask for the number dated July 13, and in it you will get the continuation of the story from the place where it leaves off here.