"Then I'll look up;
My fault is past. But oh, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn?
Try what repentance can: what can it not?
Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?"
Hamlet.
When Guly returned to his place that afternoon, Arthur was at his side;
and when both raised their eyes to Wilkins' face, as they passed him, he
read there an expression of calm tranquillity, such a trustful, happy
look of hopefulness, that he could not restrain the cheering smile of
encouragement, which came up to his lips in answer.
A great change had taken place in Arthur's face--or rather in its
expression. There was no longer the glance of proud defiance in the
eye--the flash of wounded pride upon the cheek, or curl of scorn upon
the lip. All was subdued and quiet, and seemed to whisper of a peaceful,
contrite heart. Still he studiously avoided the eye of Charley Quirk,
and also seemed to wish to appear oblivious of the presence of the
flint-eyed being sitting stiffly at the high desk.
He could not trust himself to meet the gaze of either, lest the storm of
pride and revenge, so lately banished from his breast, should return
again in full force,--sweeping away, with its ocean strength, all the
great resolves of future good, which he had piled up as a barrier
against the door of evil in his heart.
Though his sleep in a degree refreshed him, his head still ached; and
throughout his whole frame he experienced that feverish debility and
painful soreness ever attendant upon a night of dissipation and
exposure.
With a firm heart Arthur filled his place, and performed his duties
unshrinkingly, cheered and encouraged by the beaming face of his
brother, which ever and anon was turned toward him, with such a look of
happy confidence and love, that it could not fail to carry inspiration
with it.
Then night came; and after the goods, which during the day had been
pulled down, were properly replaced, Guly took his brother's arm, and
started out for a walk.
They strolled slowly along toward the Place D'Arms, which then possessed
all that natural beauty, in the shape of its green lawns and ancient
sycamores, which fashion has since seen fit to regard as an eyesore, and
to remove for ever thence.
They were silent; for the mind of each was busily occupied with its own
reflections; reflections good and effective in themselves, yet to which
neither wished at that moment to give utterance, and no allusion,
however distant, was made to the events of the previous day.
Suddenly, a trembling hand was laid on Guly's arm, and a supplicating
voice murmured humbly: "Un picayune, Monsieur; in pity, Monsieur, one
picayune to buy me bread."
By the light of a street lamp, Guly saw a pale and wrinkled face, in
which deep lines of grief or misfortune were deeply traced, raised
pleadingly toward him. The face was so old, yet so very much lower than
himself, that he at first thought the speaker must be in a sitting
posture there, beneath the lamp. But a second glance showed to his
wondering gaze the veriest dwarf his eyes had ever fallen upon. In
height, the figure was not taller than a child of four years; yet the
head was very large, the face possessed of its full growth of cunning
and experience, the shoulders broad, but painfully humped, and the whole
upper portion of the body immensely too large for the short and slender
limbs, which served for its support. And yet, as if all this wretched
deformity were not enough, one leg was shorter than the other, and the
foot was a club one. To assist him in walking, he carried a pair of
crutches, apparently much too long for him, which raised his spindle
arms in their loose sockets, and rendered the hump more horrible. When
he moved, his crutches spread out on either side of him, as he swung
along between them, taking up a vast deal of room without any apparent
necessity. His coat had apparently been the property of some great man
of the previous century, for it was braided and embroidered, and trimmed
to an extent rarely seen in the present age; and the immense holes in
the elbows, and the tatters in the skirt, laughed heartily at the rusty
trimmings which it bore. It was so long and large too, that it almost
precluded the necessity of any other clothes, for it quite enveloped his
whole person, as he swung along between his crutches, dragged on the
ground behind like the train of a lady's dress. His pantaloons had also
once belonged to some full grown specimen of humanity, but had been torn
off to suit the dimensions of the present owner--and, altogether, the
appearance of this miserable object, with his one blind eye, and the
cunning leer in the other, was calculated to excite both pity and
disgust. The brothers looked upon him for a moment in mute astonishment,
until again startled by that squeaking, supplicating voice--"Un
picayune, Monsieur--one picayune to buy me bread!"
Guly took a dime from his purse, and dropped it into the ragged cap
which the beggar extended, while he held his crutches by pressing his
arms close to his body. As the piece dropped into its ragged receptacle,
he shook it up from the greasy folds, and tipped his left eye down to
look upon it, not unlike a vulture glancing down at its prey. After
eyeing it a moment, he held the cap toward Arthur, as if expecting
something from that quarter.
Arthur had already searched every pocket for the change, which he felt
certain was there the day before; but, to his utter astonishment, it was
all gone, together with a very beautiful portemonnaie his mother had
given him when he left her, and in which, the day before, he had placed
two ten dollar bills, for the purpose of sending home when he should
write.
He knew he could not have spent it all in yesterday's rout, and the
conviction forced itself painfully upon his mind that he had been
robbed.
As the mendicant held forth his cap, he shook his head, and showed his
empty hands, at which movement the old man raised his eyebrows
inquisitively, and muttered a most disagreeable and chuckling "Hih! hih!
hih! hih!" He then picked out the dime with trembling fingers, and
slipped it quickly into some unseen deposit about his person; then, with
one more lift of his grey brows, adjusted his crutches, and swung
himself away.
The brothers gazed after the receding figure, until the mist entirely
obscured it, and the skirts of the long coat could no longer be heard
trailing on the pavement; then, again linking their arms, proceeded on
their way.
Although Guly dwelt wonderingly upon the incident they had just met
with, Arthur maintained a moody silence; nor could aught that his
brother said, direct his thoughts from the new course the recent event
had turned them upon.
The time had been, when the loss he had met with would have been
regarded as one of no importance whatever; but he felt now, and deeply
felt, that it was more than he could afford to spend foolishly, more
than even his generous impulses would have allowed him to charitably
dispose of, and more by far than he could patiently submit to be
defrauded of. As he thought thus, his good resolutions of the morning in
a measure melted away before his indignant resentment, and vague plans
were floating through his mind, as to how he might and would recover it,
the bearing he should feel called upon to assume when next he met Mr.
Clinton, &c., &c. To tell Guly of the loss he had sustained, after some
reflection, he decided was out of the question. True, he had been gentle
and forbearing with regard to all that had passed, but he would not
reveal this new discovery to him--perhaps dreading more the rebuking
silence of those loving lips, than the stormy reproaches he might have
met with from another source.
Guly had seen that nothing had been bestowed upon the beggar by his
brother; but he forbore to question him, lest it should lead them upon a
subject unpleasant to both; and thus grew up the first concealment
between those hitherto confiding hearts.
Reaching the square, they passed through the gate, and turned into a
grassy walk, to enjoy ever so small a glimpse of verdant country scenes.
Strolling on, they came suddenly upon a figure reclining at full length
upon a bench, and smoking a cigar. As they approached, there was
something in the man's appearance that seemed to startle Arthur, for he
clutched his brother's arm closer, and turned abruptly to the left; but
he was too late to pass unperceived, for, with a bound, the reclining
figure gained its feet, and in an instant more Arthur's hand received a
cordial grasp, while Mr. Clinton, as nicely dressed, as neatly curled,
and as delicately perfumed as ever, stood before him.