THE WARNING.
Two or three things occurred during the Autumn which had some
influence upon the fortunes of Barton.
Five or six days after the trial, he received a letter, postmarked
Auburn, which read as follows:
"Beware of Greer.
Don't listen to him.
Be careful of your associations."
Only three lines, with the fewest words: not another word, line, mark,
or figure on any side of it. The hand was bold and free, and entirely
unknown to him. The paper was fine-tinted note, and Bart seemed to
catch a faint odor of violets as he opened it; a circumstance which
reminded him that a few days before he had found on the grave of his
brother, a faded bouquet of flowers. There was perhaps, no connection
between them, but they associated themselves in his mind. Some maiden,
unknown to him, had cherished the memory of his brother, may have
loved him; and had secretly laid this offering on his resting-place.
How sweet was the thought to him! Who was she? Would he ever know? She
had heard something of this Greer--there was something bad or wrong
about him; Henry may have spoken to her about the man; and she may
have seen or known of Greer's taking him home, and had written him
this note of warning. The hand was like that of a man, but no man in
Ohio would use such paper, scented with violets. How queer and strange
it was! and how the mind of the imaginative youth worked and worried,
but not unpleasantly, over it! Of course, if the note was from a
woman, she must have written because he was Henry's brother; and it
was, in a way, from him, and to be heeded, although Henry had himself
been favorably impressed by Greer. The warning was not lost upon him,
although it may not have been necessary.
A few days later, the elegant and leisurely Greer made his appearance;
and after complimenting Bart upon his success in an easy, roundabout
way, approached the subject of his call; and Bart was duly impressed
that it arose from considerations of favor and regard to him,
that Greer now sought him. The visitor referred to the rule among
gentlemen, which Bart must understand, of course, that what he
might communicate, as well as their whole interview, must be purely
confidential. The agents, he said, were selected with the utmost care,
and were usually asked to subscribe articles, and sworn to secrecy;
but that he had so much confidence in Bart, that this would not be
necessary. Bart, who listened impassively, said that he understood
the rule of implied confidence extended only to communications in
themselves right and honorable; and that of course Mr. Greer could
have no other to make to him. Greer inquired what he meant. Bart
said that if a man approached, with or without exacting a pledge of
confidence, and made him a proposition strictly honorable, he should
of course regard it as sacred; but if he proposed to him to unite in
a robbery, house-burning, or to pass counterfeit money, or commit any
breach of morality, he should certainly hold himself at liberty to
disclose it, if he deemed it necessary. "If I am, in advance, asked to
regard a proposed communication as confidential, I should understand,
of course, that the proposer impliedly pledged that it should be of
a character that a man of honor could listen to and entertain; of
course, Mr. Greer, you can have no other to make to me, and you know I
would not listen to any other."
During this statement, made with the utmost courtesy, Bart looked
Greer steadily in the face, and received a calm, full, unwinking look
in return. Greer assured him that his notions of the ethics of honor,
while they were nice, were his own, and he was glad to act upon them;
that he was not on that day fully authorized to open up the matter,
but should doubtless receive full instructions in a day or two; and he
had called to-day more to keep his word with Bart than to enter upon
an actual business transaction. Nothing could be franker and more
open than his way and manner in saying this; and as he was trained to
keenness of observation, he may have detected the flitting smile that
just hovered on Bart's lips. After a little pleasant commonplace talk
of common things, the leisurely Greer took a cordial leave, and never
approached Bart but once again.
At the Whig nominating convention, for the county of Geanga, that
Fall, Major Ridgeley, who had, by a vote of the officers of his
regiment, become its Colonel, was a candidate for the office of
sheriff. He was popular, well-known, and his prospects fair. The
office was attractive, its emoluments good, and it was generally
sought after by the best class of ambitious men in the counties.
He was defeated in the convention through a defection of his supposed
friends, which he charged, justly or otherwise, upon Judge Markham.
The disappointment was bitter, and he was indignant, of course.
Like Bart, when he thought a mishap was without remedy, he neither
complained nor asked explanations. When he and the Judge next met,
it was with cool contempt on his side, and with surprise, and then
coldness, on the part of Markham. Their words were few and courteous,
but for the next eighteen months they avoided each other. Of course,
Bart sympathized with his brother Morris; although he did not suppose
the Judge was ever committed, still he felt that he and all his
friends should have stood by his brother, and apprehended that the
Judge's dislike to him may have influenced his course. However that
may have been, Judge Markham never approached Bart, who continued to
act upon his old determination to avoid the whole Markham family.
His engagements took the Judge to the State capital for the winter,
where, with his wife and Julia, he remained until the early spring,
following; as did also General and Mrs. Ford.
Barton undertook the school in his mother's neighborhood for the
winter, with the understanding that he might attend to calls in the
line of his proposed profession, which grew upon his hands. He pushed
his studies with unremitting ardor; he had already made arrangements
with Mr. Ranney to enter his office on the first of the April
following, and hoped to secure an admission in the next September,
when he should seek a point for business, to which he proposed to
remove his mother and younger brothers, as soon afterwards as his
means would warrant.
His friend Theodore had gone away permanently, from Newbury, and the
winter passed slowly and monotonously to Bart. He knew, although
he would not admit to himself, that the principal reason of his
discontent was the absence of Julia. What was she to him? What could
she ever be? and yet, how dreary was Newbury--the only place he had
ever loved---when she was away. Of course she would wed, some time,
and was undoubtedly much admired, and sought, and courted, by elegant
and accomplished men, this winter, upon whom she smiled, and to whom
she gave her hand when she met them, and who were permitted to dance
with her, and be near her at any time. And what was it all to him? How
sore, after all, his heart was; and how he hated and cursed himself,
that he must still think of her! He would go forever and ever away,
and ever so far away, and would hear and think of her no more. But
when she came back, with March, he somehow felt her return, and Spring
seemed naturally to come with her; and bright thoughts, and beautiful
and poetic figures and images, would arrange themselves in couplets
and stanzas, with her in the centre, in spite of him.
Then came sugar making, with life and health of spirit, in the woods.
His brother was arranging to dispose of his interests, and had gone
further West, to look for a new point, for new enterprises.