"Oh! how this tyrant doubt torments my breast!
My thoughts, like birds, who, frightened from their nest,
Around the place where all was hushed before,
Flutter, and hardly nestle any more."
Otway.
From this night, Arthur's course was more swiftly downward than ever it
had been before. It seemed as if the last redeeming moment of his life
was passed, and that some strong arm was hurrying him fiercely forward
into the blackened pit of which he had dreamed one night long ago, when
slumbering sweetly at his brother's side, his cheek upon his hand!
Every succeeding night plunged him deeper beneath the waves of that sea
of dissipation upon which he had thrown himself. Theatres, dissolute
balls, the gambling saloon and billiard table, each with their attendant
quantity of exciting drinks, were his constant places of resort; and
though Guly pleaded, and prayed him to renounce them forever, and come
back to his old ways, 'twas in vain.
The Demon of Remorse was gnawing at his heart-strings for the crime he
had committed, and pride, that fatal pride, was stinging him into
silence and misery, withholding him from confessing, even to his Maker,
his sorrow and repentance. He had given his right hand to the Evil One,
and his left there was none to take.
Every morning, as Mr. Delancey's keen eyes searched that haggard and
bloated face, Guly expected to hear him dismissed; but as yet that trial
came not, and Guly felt that it was for his sake the merchant spared his
brother, and the kindness sank deep into his young heart, never to be
forgotten.
One night after the store was closed, Arthur sauntered up to Guly, and,
laying his hand upon his arm, said:
"You remember the little black-eyed Creole I told you of one night some
time ago?"
"The one you fancied had got your heart?" said Guly, kindly; "yes, I
remember."
"Three nights ago, I proposed to her, offered her heart and hand, and
told her, what was truth, that I loved her dearly, and, do you believe,
she refused me flatly."
"She proved herself more prudent than you, Arthur. You should have known
better than to ask a young girl to be your wife, when you have nothing,
and will keep nothing, to support her.
"I'll risk the support," returned Arthur, with a short laugh, "if she
had consented we could have managed to live, I fancy; and had we
failed, we'd have called on our relations." Here Arthur cast a meaning,
but half-mirthful glance at Guly, who, seeing that even then he was half
intoxicated, shrunk away, not wishing to prolong the conversation.
"Do you know what I am going to do?" continued Arthur, again looking up.
"Nothing wrong, I hope, Arthur."
"You may think so. Since I can't get her by fair means, I'm bound to get
her by foul; that's what I'm going to do."
"For pity's sake, my brother, if the girl is good and innocent do not
wrong her; there are enough ready to gratify your idle whims, without
robbing the pure and happy of their peace. Where does she live?"
"Perhaps you think I'll tell you that, and have you play the defender?
Ah, I've got my senses yet."
"How did you get acquainted, and where?"
"_How?_ By my own natural conversational powers, which called out hers.
_Where?_ In the street, in the first place, where I was so fortunate as
to meet her just as she had dropped one of a number of parcels of herb
medicine she was carrying. I had the pleasure of picking it up for her,
and of relieving her of some of her load. Thus I found out where she
lived, and then took it upon myself to call again; but she hasn't seemed
to like me from the first--hang her pretty eyes; but I'll be revenged
for her refusal--see if I'm not."
"Let me beg of you to give up this cruel idea, Arthur. Shame upon you
for harboring it for a single moment."
"Pooh!" said Arthur, scoffingly, "it's no use talking, I shall embrace
the first opportunity."
Guly turned away heart-sick; he felt it was useless arguing the matter,
and knew that had not Arthur been half intoxicated at the time, he would
never have given him so much of his confidence; for he rarely now took
an opportunity to say anything to him unless it was when extra draughts
of wine had taken all restraint from his tongue.
It being the busy season of the year, Guly had of late been so confined
to business that it had been impossible for him to slip away and visit
Blanche as he had done formerly. Occasionally, he had written her a note
and sent it by his friend the dwarf, making such errands the occasion of
a round remuneration to the miserable cripple.
He would always hobble his way back after performing the errand,
although the walk was long, to say to Guly: "Hih, hih, Monsieur, but
she's a beauty, one of her pretty smiles is as good as a picayune to me;
bless her heart; I think, Monsieur, she make you very happy one of these
days when you both get old enough for the priest to pronounce you man
and wife; hih, hih, that I do."
These were honest words; the dwarf meant every syllable of them; and the
reward he received in Guly's bright smile, and sometimes an additional
bit of silver, had nothing to do with calling them out, however joyfully
such tokens were received.
The second evening after Guly's conversation with Arthur, the former
stood in the store door waiting anxiously for the customers to leave
that he might "close up" and visit Blanche. Arthur had already gone out,
and he felt a nervous and anxious dread for which he could not account,
and which made him all the more eager to be free. As he stood thus, he
felt some one sieze the hand which was hanging at his side, and looking
down, beheld Richard the dwarf.
"Hih! hih! Monsieur, very long walk, very much tired. She looks more
beautiful than ever to-night, though she sheds very much tears. She say
to me to-day, when I went by: 'Come to me to-night, Richard, grandpapa
is very ill; I may have a message to send by you.' So to-night I went; I
tapped at the door with my longest crutch, she come out, cry very much,
and tell me give you this."
Guly took the little note the dwarf handed up to him, and hastened up to
the light to read it.
It merely stated that her grandpapa was very, _very_ ill, and begged him
to get word to Mr. Wilkins and sister Della, who were her only friends,
beside himself, and old Eliza who gave her medicine for her poor sick
grandpapa.
After he had read the characteristic and simple little note, Guly
slipped a piece of money into Richard's hand, thanking him warmly for
the service he had done him, and the little man swung himself away,
talking pleasantly to himself as he went.
It was late before it was possible to shut the store, but the moment he
could do so, Guly did; and then with a sinking heart took his way to
Wilkins' house. Della and Wilkins were sitting by the grate when he
entered, while Minny sat on a low stool just in front of her mistress,
with one fair round arm thrown caressingly over Della's lap. It seemed
too bright a picture to be disturbed, and Guly, who had entered
unannounced, stood looking at it a moment before he did so.
The moment he told his errand, Della begged Wilkins to go and do all he
could, to take Minny with him, and to give Blanche her dear love, and
tell her she would have gone herself had she not felt too much
indisposed.
Minny tied on her hat, threw a light shawl about her shoulders, and
started away with Wilkins and Guly at a rapid pace. The moon was shining
brightly, and as they walked briskly on, their shadows fell long and
slender, marching on before them. They had approached within a few
blocks of the house, when Guly's attention was attracted by the
appearance of some dark object on the opposite side of the way, going
slowly along in the shadow of the buildings, and evidently seeking
concealment.
With his curiosity awakened, he pointed it out to Wilkins, and bidding
Minny seek the shelter of an adjacent doorway, they crossed the narrow
street to discover if possible what it was. As they approached, the
object moved more quickly, but they soon drew near enough to see it was
a female form, borne in the arms of a stout negro, and Arthur. As they
passed an opening between two houses, the moonlight streamed down full
upon the upturned face of the girl they were carrying, exposing her
features clearly to Wilkins and his companion.
"Blanche! my own Blanche!"
Uttering these words, Guly sprang wildly forward. Arthur, finding he
could not escape, turned short round and met him face to face.
The brothers grappled; all of Guly's meekness and forbearance was merged
in the base insult which had been offered her he loved, and he seemed
for the time gifted with almost superhuman strength. The struggle was
brief; and Arthur was flung heavily upon the pavement. In an instant
Blanche, whom Wilkins had released from the negro's grasp, was weeping
on his bosom. With an effort, Arthur managed to pick himself up, and
slunk away into the shadows, leaving Blanche with her defenders.
From that night the bonds of sympathy were broken between the brothers;
and each trod his chosen path almost unheeded by the other.
"Tell me, Blanche," said Guly, as, rejoining Minny, they proceeded to
her grandfather's house, "how this happened. What took you away from the
sick-bed to be exposed to the craft of bad men?"
"Oh, I was so anxious and so unhappy," said Blanche, weeping bitterly,
"I feared grandpapa would die before any of you came. I left Lilah, the
little girl you sent me, Mr. Wilkins, to watch by grandpapa while I ran
down the piazza steps to see if you were coming. The moment I reached
the last step, that horrid negro threw his arm about me. I struggled and
tried to scream, but the other forced a gag in my mouth, and carried me
off. I gave myself up to die, but God sent you, dear Guly, to save me,
and you, Mr. Wilkins, for the second time. This same bad man has hung
about here for a week or more; but I have always tried to elude him,
because I believed him wicked, though he pretended to love me and all
that."
Guly shuddered as he felt it must have been Blanche of whom Arthur had
spoken a few evenings before; but he said nothing, and stood once more
in the little room where many times they had been so happy together. The
old man's easy chair was empty now, and from an inner room came low
faint moans of suffering.
Blanche hurried to the bedside, and stood bending over her grandfather,
weeping bitterly. It was evident his hours were numbered, and they all
gathered round, silent and tearful, to see the old man die. Blanche
stood on one side of the bed, with Minny by her side, and Guly and
Wilkins directly opposite. Slowly the breath came through those aged
lips, slow and faint. In his effort to get air, the dying man threw out
his arms upon the coverlet. His hands met those of Blanche and Guly, as
they rested on the bedside. It might have been accident, but the
trembling fingers clasped them tightly, and with a last effort folded
them together above him. There came a shiver, a faint moan, and the
grandsire was dead, with his chilling fingers still folding those two
young hands together.
There seemed to be no bounds to Blanche's grief, and it was with the
greatest difficulty she could be persuaded to leave for a moment the
corpse of her grandfather. When she was at last induced to do so,
Wilkins sent for an undertaker and had the body fitly prepared for its
last resting-place.
Finding that Blanche would not think of taking a moments rest, or of
remaining away from the corpse, Wilkins, and Guly, and Minny remained
with her in that lonely and desolate room, where the shadow of death
hung so darkly, until the morning sun streamed in through the little
windows, robbing the chamber of some of its darkness and gloom.
It was not thought advisable to keep the body long, and the next
afternoon the funeral took place. Guly attended it, as did Wilkins'
family, and a few of Blanche's Creole neighbors.
When the last sad rites were over, Guly attended Blanche back to her
lonely home. Wilkins kindly offered her a home in his house, an offer
which Della warmly seconded; but Blanche had sufficient tact to see that
Wilkins was poor, and had no little difficulty to support his own family
comfortably, and she gratefully declined his invitation, stating there
was much that required her attention for the present at home, but that
she would soon visit them.
When she returned to the old spot, endeared to her by so many fond
associations, her grief again burst forth, and Guly drawing a chair to
her side strove to soothe and comfort her.
He could not leave her there without telling how deeply and truly he
loved her, how faithfully his love would always endure, and how
earnestly he desired that love should be returned.
Placing both her hands in his, Blanche told him in her own frank,
innocent way, how dearly she loved him in return, and how fondly she had
thought of him since the first day they ever met, and that she would
never love any one else, never, never.
"And one of these days when I am a man, and have a nice little home to
offer you, you will be my own dear little wife. Blanche, you promise?"
"I promise, Guly, I could never be happy as the dear little wife of any
one else, and when you say, 'Blanche, I want you now,' then Blanche is
yours."
Guly pressed her to his heart and they plighted troth. This was but boy
and girl love, but it was a love which decayed not, neither did it fade,
but flourished and grew, even with the hand of sorrow and trial crushing
out its young life.