Life is so complicated a game that the devices of skill are
liable to be defeated at every turn by air-blown chances
incalculable as the descent of thistledown.--GEORGE ELIOT'S
_Romola_.
During Jack's visit to her father's office, Nina passed the time in
desultory shopping until she met him on King Street.
"I need not ask what your success was," said she, smiling, as she joined
him. "Your face shows that clearly enough."
"Nothing less than a dook," groaned Jack, good-humoredly. "He seems to
think they can be had at auction sales in England."
"I am glad he refused," said Nina, "because his consent would delay my
whims. We have done our duty in asking him, and now I am going to marry
you to-morrow, Jack."'
"To-morrow?"
"Yes, I am afraid, dear Jack, that if I allowed the marriage to be put
off till next week or longer you might change your mind." She gave Jack
a look that disturbed thought. Affection toward him on her part was
something so new that this, together with her startling announcement,
made it difficult for him accurately to distinguish his head from his
heels.
"But I can not leave the bank at a moment's notice."
"No; but you can get your holidays a week sooner. You were going to take
them in a week."
"Had we not better wait, then, for the week to expire?"
"Fiddlesticks! Don't you see that I want to give you a chance? What I am
_really_ afraid of is that I shall change my own mind. Father said only
yesterday he was thinking of taking me to England at once. If you don't
want to take your chances you can take your consequences instead."
It did not seem anything new or strange to Jack that she should give a
little stamp of her foot imperiously, and in all the willfulness of a
spoiled child determine suddenly upon carrying out a whim in spite of
any objections. And Jack needed no great force of argument to push him
on in this matter. His head was throbbing with excitement. To think of
the bank was habitual to him; but the wildness of the new move commended
itself to his young blood. The holidays were a mere matter of
arrangement, for the most part, between the clerks, and he thought he
saw his way to arranging for a fortnight's absence. "I'll make it all
right," he said, thinking aloud. "I will arrange it with Sappy."
Whether "Sappy" was the bank manager or a fellow-clerk did not at the
moment interest Nina.
"Why, Nina, I didn't know you were a person to go in for anything half
so wild. It suits me. It will be the spree of my life! But how have you
arranged everything? or have you arranged anything?"
"Oh, there is nothing very much to arrange. I know you can not leave the
bank finally without giving due notice. So we will just go off now and
get married, and when you come back, after a week or so, you can give
the usual notice and then we will go to California. If your brother
there wants you to go into the grape-farming he must know well enough
that you have better chances there than here in the bank, and if, after
all, the business there did not get on well, I dare say father will have
changed his mind by that time."
"And how will you account for your absence from home?"
"Nothing simpler," said she, with a sagacious toss of her head. "I am
just telegraphing to Sophronia B. Hopkins at Lockport, New York. You
remember Sophronia B., when she was with us? I have telegraphed that I
am coming to see her. She will answer to say 'Come along'; and then I
will put her off for a couple of weeks and tell her to keep any letters
forwarded for me from here until I come."
Jack was astonished. "I thought your head was only valuable as an
ornament," said he, with affectionate rudeness.
"I have never, with you, had occasion to use it before. To-morrow, at
half-past seven in the morning, you will take the train for Hamilton. I
will take the 9.30 and we will go through to Buffalo together, where we
will arrive about two o'clock, and then we can be married there and go
West. But we need not arrange anything more now. You will be at the
Campbells' to-night, and anything further can be spoken about there. Go
off now to the bank and get everything ready. And, by the way,
Jack"--here she held out her hand as if for good-by--while she asked,
with what seemed to Jack an almost unimaginable coquetry and beauty,
"you won't change your mind, dear Jack?" She gave him one glance from
under her sweeping eyelashes, and then she left him to grope his way to
the bank.
She thought, as she walked along, "I think I have read somewhere that
'whom the gods wish to take they first drive mad,' or something like
that. It is just as well, as Geoffrey suggested, to keep Jack slightly
insane to-day. It will prevent him from thinking my proposal strange.
Poor Jack! To-day he would give me his right arm as a present. How
shabbily I have treated him, and how well he has always behaved!"
About eleven on the following forenoon, Jack was waiting in the
dining-room of the Hamilton railway station, looking out through the
window to see Nina's train come in. He thought it better to escape
observation in this way. Nor did Nina indulge in looking out the window
of the Pullman. Everything had been fully arranged, and as the bridge
train moved out of the station, Jack left his obscure post of
observation and hastily passed through the crowd on the station and got
on board the "smoker" in front. When clear of Hamilton he made his way
back through the cars to the drawing-room car, where he found Nina, who
was beginning to look a little anxious for his arrival.
The train took nearly two hours to trundle along to the bridge. For a
time they talked together, but Nina was feeling the reaction of the
excitement of getting away. She had had a good deal to do, and she did
not feel that going away with Jack would prevent her from enjoying a
fairly comfortable nap in the large swinging arm-chairs. She soon dozed
off, and Jack, who was pleased to see her rest, walked to the end of the
car and back again to calm his nerves. This sort of thing was new to
him. He had a novel with him, but he could not read it. His "only books
were woman's looks" to-day. Other people's adventures seemed poor to him
just now, in comparison with his own.
While thus moving about restlessly he became a little interested in an
elderly gentleman, evidently a clergyman, who was sitting unobtrusively
behind a copy of the Detroit Church Herald. He passed this retiring
person several times, in loitering about, and then, seeing him with his
paper laid down beside him, stopped and said cheerfully:
"Got the car all to ourselves to-day."
"Yes," said the grave-looking person, with an American accent. "And
pleasant, too, on a warm day like this. It's worth the extra quarter to
get out from among the crying babies and orange-peel and come in here
and travel comfortably. Going far?"
"Only as far as Buffalo," said Jack, taking a seat beside him, for want
of anything better to do.
"That is where I reside."
"Ah, indeed!" said Jack. "You make Buffalo the scene of your official
duties?"
The other nodded. "I have been for a visit to Detroit, and now I am
going back to relieve my superior in the church, so that he may take a
holiday also. I think we clergy need a holiday as much as any other
people I ever saw. Do you know Buffalo at all?"
"Never was there in my life," said Jack.
"Humph! Well, it ain't a bad place, Buffalo, when you know the people
well. I have only been there five years, but I have found in our
congregation some real nice folks. Of course, mine is the Episcopal
Church, and I have generally found the Episcopalians, in my sojournings
in different places, to be the superior people of the locality."
From the compliment to the Episcopalians it was evident that the
clergyman had no doubt Jack belonged to that aristocratically inclined
sect, and Jack smiled at his friend's shrewdness, forgetting the fact
that "Church of England--mild, acquiescent, and gentlemanly"--was
written all over him, and that the cut of his clothes, the shape of his
whisker, the turn of his head when listening, and even the solidity of
his utility-first boots made it almost impossible for any person to
suppose he belonged to any other denomination.
"I have heard," Jack said, "that the Buffalo people, many of them, have
lots of money, and that they give freely to the churches. I suppose
money is an element in a congregation which gentlemen of your calling do
not object to?"
It seemed to Jack that the long gray eyes of the minister smiled at this
point more because he thought he was expected to smile than from any
sense of mirth. He was a grave man, who, behind a dignified reserve,
seemed capable of taking in a great deal at a glance.
"No one can deny the power of money," he said. "But, though there is a
good deal of it in St. James's Church, what with a paid choir, and the
church debt, and repairs, and the new organ, and the paying of my
superior in office, I can tell you there is not very much left for the
person who plays second fiddle, as one may say."
"Ah!" said Jack sympathetically.
"When a man has a wife and a growing family to support and bring up in a
large city, and prices away up, twelve hundred dollars a year don't go a
very great ways, young man, and if it were not for our perquisites some
of us would find it difficult to make both ends of the string meet
around the parcel we have got to carry."
Jack was becoming slightly interested in this man and was wondering what
his previous history was. He wondered that his new acquaintance had not
made more money than he seemed to possess. There was something behind
his grave immobility of countenance that suggested ability of some sort,
he did not know what. His slightly varying expressions of countenance
did not always seem to appear spontaneously, but to be placed there by a
directing intelligence that first considered what expression would be
the right one. It seemed like a peculiar mannerism which might in
another man be the result of a slightly sluggish brain.
They conversed with each other all the way to the bridge, and although
the dignified reserve of the clergyman never quite thawed out, Jack
began to rather like him and be interested in his large fund of
information about the United States and anecdotes of frontier life in
California, where as a youth he had had a varied experience.
Their baggage was examined by the customs officer on the American side
of the bridge, and the clergyman noticed a monogram in silver on Nina's
shopping-bag, "N. L.," and the initials "J. C." on Jack's valises, and
came to the conclusion from Jack's studied attentions to Nina when she
awoke that, if the young couple were not married yet, it was quite time
they were; and no doubt it entered the clerical mind that there might be
a marriage fee for himself to come out of the little acquaintance. In
view of this he renewed the conversation himself after the car went on
by the New York Central toward Buffalo. Jack introduced the Rev. Matthew
Simpson to Nina, and he made the short run to Buffalo still shorter with
amusing stories of clerical life, ending up with one about his own
marriage, which was not the less interesting on account of its being a
runaway match and the fact that he had never regretted it. Jack felt
that behind this elderly man's dignity there was a heart that understood
the world and knew what young people were. So he told a short story on
his account, which did not seem to surprise the reverend gentleman a
great deal, and it was arranged that he should perform the ceremony for
them at the hotel. On arriving in Buffalo they left their luggage at the
station, intending to go on to Cleveland at four o'clock. On the way up
Main Street, Mr. Simpson pointed out St. James's Church--a large
edifice, partly covered with ivy--and also showed the parsonage where he
lived. He urged them to wait and be married in the church, but Nina
shunned the publicity of it and pleaded their want of time.
Jack and Nina had some dinner at the Genesee House, while Mr. Simpson
got the marriage license ready. As luck would have it, Mr. Simpson
himself issued marriage licenses, which, as he explained, also assisted
him to eke out his small income; and as soon as they had had a hurried
lunch, they all retired to a private parlor and the marriage ceremony
was performed very quietly.
Two waiters were called in as witnesses, and it was arranged that on
their return to Buffalo in a few days, they could call at the parsonage
and then sign the church register, for which there was now no time
before the four o'clock train left for Cleveland. The license was
produced, filled out, and signed in due form, and on the large red seal
were stamped the words, "Matthew Simpson, Issuer of Marriage Licenses."
The presence of the stamp showed that he was a duly authorized person,
and satisfied Jack that in employing a chance acquaintance he was not
making any mistake.
They were glad when the ceremony was finished, and Jack was very
pleasant with Mr. Simpson. They all got into the cab again, and rattled
off toward the station. As they came near the parsonage of St. James's
Church, Mr. Simpson said he thought he would go as far as the suburbs
with them in their train to see how some people in the hospital were
getting on. He said he would get down, now, at the parsonage, because he
wished to take something with him to one of the patients, but that they
must not risk losing the train.
"I will take another cab and meet you at the train. It is not a matter
of much moment if I fail to catch it; but, Mr. Cresswell, if you get a
bottle of wine into the car (perhaps you will have time to get it at the
station), I will be pleased to drink Mrs. Cresswell's health."
"That's a capital idea," said Jack with spirit. "The wine will be
doubtful, perhaps, but that won't be my fault. And now," he added, as
the carriage stopped at the parsonage, "I want to leave with you your
fee, Mr. Simpson, and I hope you will not consider that it cancels our
indebtedness to you." Jack pulled out a roll of bills.
"Never mind, my dear young man," said Mr. Simpson heartily, "any time
will do. I will catch you at the station, and, if I don't, you can leave
it with me when you return here to sign the register."
Mr. Simpson got out, and Jack, finding he had only two five dollar
bills, the rest being all in fifties, was rather in a dilemma how to pay
Mr. Simpson twenty dollars for his fee.
"Here;" he said hurriedly, handing out a fifty, "you get this changed,
if you have time, on your way down. You may possibly miss us at the
station, and I can not hear of your waiting until we return."
"Very well," said Mr. Simpson, speaking as fast as his tongue would let
him, "I will have to take my chance, and, if I can not catch you, just
call in for the balance when you return. Don't lose a moment!" With a
wave of his hand and a direction to the driver, Mr. Simpson went
hurriedly up the parsonage steps, and the cab dashed off toward the
Michigan Southern depot.
Jack had time to purchase the wine, which ought to have been good,
judging from the price. Unfortunately, Mr. Simpson was too late to join
them. The train went off without him, and Jack and Nina drank his jolly
good health in half the bottle, and afterward the Pullman conductor
struggled successfully with the rest.
Altogether they were in high spirits, Jack especially, and Nina's
thankfulness for being safely married to one of the best of men made her
very amiable.
* * * * *
Mr. and Mrs. John Cresswell approached Buffalo again, from the West, at
the close of Jack's two weeks' holidays. They decided that it would be
better for Nina to go straight to Lockport on the train which connected
with the one on which they were traveling. There was nothing for Nina to
do in Buffalo but sign the register and get her marriage "lines" from
Mr. Simpson, and Jack could do this, they thought, without a delay on
her part to do so. To arrange about the register she had written her
name on a narrow slip of paper which Jack could paste in the book at the
parsonage. This they considered would suffice, and Nina went on to pay
her intended visit to Sophronia B. Hopkins. The run to Lockport occupied
only a short time, and then she went to her friend's house.
In the mean time Jack, who was not like the husband in Punch in that
stage of the honeymoon when the presence of a friend "or even an enemy"
would be a grateful change of companionship, walked up Main Street
smoking a cigar and trying to make the best of his sudden bereavement.
He said after the first ten minutes that he was infernally lonely, but
still the flavor of the cigar was from fair to middling. And, after all,
tobacco and quiet contemplation _have_ a place in life which can not be
altogether neglected, and they come in well again after a while, no
matter what may have caused their temporary banishment.
He strolled leisurely up to the parsonage and inquired for Mr. Simpson.
The maid-servant said he did not live there. Jack thought this was
strange.
"I mean the clergyman who has charge of the church alongside."
"Oh, yes, Mr. Toxham lives here. He is inside. Will you walk in?"
Jack was ushered into a clergyman's library, where a thin man with a
worn face was sitting. Jack bowed, introduced himself, and said he had
come here to see Mr. Matthew Simpson, "one of the associate clergymen in
St. James's Church close by."
"I do not think I know anybody by the name of Simpson," said the
clergyman. "My name is Toxham. I have no associate clergyman with me in
the neighboring church. My church is called St. Luke's, not St. James's.
I don't think there is any St. James's Church in Buffalo." Jack grasped
the back of the chair and unconsciously sat down to steady himself. A
horrible fear overwhelmed him. His face grew ashen in hue, and the
clergyman jumped up in a fright, thinking something was going to happen.
"It's all right," said Jack weakly. "Sit down, please. You have given me
a shock, and I feel as I never felt before. There, I am better now."
As he wiped away the cold perspiration that had started out in beads on
his forehead he related the facts as to his marriage to Mr. Toxham, who
was greatly shocked.
An idea occurred to him, and on looking through the city directory, as a
sort of last chance, he found the name "Matthew Simpson, issuer of
marriage licenses."
Jack started up, filled with wild and sudden hope. He got the address,
and dashed from the house before Mr. Toxham could give him a word of
advice. Arrived at the office of Matthew Simpson, he walked in and asked
for that gentleman.
"I am Matthew Simpson," said the man he spoke to.
Jack looked at him as if he had seven heads, feeling the same trembling
in the knees which he had felt when with Mr. Toxham. "Really," he
thought, "if this goes on I'll be a driveling idiot by nightfall."
"Did you issue a marriage license on, let me see, two weeks ago
to-morrow--on the 23d?"
"More than likely I did. Perhaps a good many on that day. You don't look
as if you wanted one yourself. Anything gone wrong? But you can have one
if you like. I do the biggest business in Buffalo. I sell more marriage
licenses than any two men between here and--"
"Turn up your books," interrupted Jack savagely. He was beginning to
wish to kill somebody.
"I always make a charge for a search," said the man cunningly, which was
not true.
"Well, damn it, I can pay you. Look lively now, or the police will do it
for me in five minutes, and put you where your frauds will be of no use
to you."
It was Mr. Simpson's turn to lose color now. He was one of the trustees
of a public institution in Buffalo, and people should be careful how
they talk too suddenly about police to trustees. The books were
produced, and Jack hurriedly looked over the list of the licenses sold
on the 23d of the last month, and was surprised to find that one had
been sold to himself. His age was entered and sworn to as fifty-five
years, and the license was to marry Nina Lindon, spinster, aged twenty
years. The addresses given were all Buffalo.
"There has been a great fraud done here," said Jack vehemently.
"All perfectly regular, my dear sir," said Mr. Simpson. "I remember the
circumstance well. Old party, called John Cresswell, came in, dressed
like a preacher, and wanted a license for himself. 'All right, my old
covey,' says I to myself; 'trust an old stager like you to pick up the
youngest and best.' So I perdooced the papers, which took about five
minutes to fill up. He took the oath, I sealed and stamped the license,
like this one here, and as soon as he got it he took out his purse and
there was nothing in it. His face fell about a quarter of a yard. 'My
goodness,' he says. 'I have come out without any money!' He then laid
down the license and rushed to the door, and then turned round and says,
quite distressed: 'I'll take a cab,' says he, 'and drive home and get
your money. They're all waiting at the church for the marriage to take
place, but, of course, you must be paid first.'"
"Well, I hated to see an old gent put about so, and his speaking about
'taking a cab' and coming from 'home' in such a natural, put-about sort
of way kinder made me think he was solid, and, like a dum fool, I slings
him the license and tells him to call in after the ceremony. He thanked
me, with what I should call Christian gratitude in his face. Yes, sir,
it was Christian gratitude, there, every time. And--would you believe
it?--the old boozer never showed up since!"
"Ha!" said Jack, who only heard the main facts of what Simpson was
saying. "Did you never see this old man before?" he added.
"Well, that is a funny thing about it. It seemed to me I knew the face.
That was one thing that made me trust him. I could not swear to it, but
I have a great mind for faces, and I believe I have, at some time or
other, sold the old coon a license before."
Jack thought this would account for the old man, while on the train,
giving the name Matthew Simpson, when he had the whole scheme quickly
arranged in his head. Still, it might be that he was in fact some
profligate, ruined clergyman, who played these confidence games to make
a livelihood. The license was issued in his and Nina's names, and,
although incorrect on its face and not paid for, might still, he
thought, be a legal license for him to claim a _bona-fide_ marriage
under. If the license was good enough, the next thing to do was to go
to the police office and find out what he could there. "The marriage
might be a good one still."
He threw down the price of the license for Mr. Simpson, and asked him to
be good enough to keep the papers in his possession carefully, as they
might be required afterward. He left Mr. Simpson rather mystified as to
the interest he took in the matter, and then, having still two hours
before train-time, he repaired to the police headquarters. There he
related in effect what had taken place to Superintendent Fox. Two or
three quiet-looking men were lounging about, seeming to take but little
interest in Jack's story. Detectives are not easily disturbed by that
which excites the victim who tells his unfortunate experience. These
fellows were smoking cigars, and they occasionally exchanged a low
sentence with each other in which Jack thought he heard the word
"Faro-Joseph." What that meant he did not know; but he described the
gentleman of dignified aspect, whom he had known on the train as Rev.
Matthew Simpson, and then he heard one of them mutter "Faro-Joseph"
again, while they nodded significantly.
One of the men, who had his boots on a desk in front of him, was
consulting his note-book. He then said:
"On the 23d of last month Faro-Joseph got off the train at the Central
Depot at two o'clock. On the 26th he left on the Michigan Southern at 10
P. M."
It dawned upon Jack that his clerical friend was called "Faro-Joseph" in
police circles.
"Why did you not warn me when you saw me in company with this man. He
got off the train with me at the the time you say. Surely I should have
had some word from you!"
"Well, gent, I tell you why. I was just about to arrest another man, and
in the crowd I did not see that you were with him. Don't remember ever
seeing you before. I might pass you twenty times and never know I had
seen you. You're not the kind we reaches out for. Now, I dare say,
unless a woman is of a fine figure--tall, possibly, or the kind of
figure you admire--chances are you don't see her at all. That is, you
could not tell afterward whether you had seen her or not. Same thing
here. You're not the kind we hunt."
Jack turned to the superintendent and asked him whether this man,
Faro-Joseph, was not really at one time a clergyman. The superintendent
smiled pityingly.
"Why, he only started the sky-pilot game during the last ten years, and
only takes it up occasionally. Though I believe it's his best holt. As a
Gospel-sharp he'll beat anybody out of their socks. He's immense on that
lay. What I call just perfect. He's all on the confidence ticket now and
the pasteboards. Has quite given up the heavy business. Why, sir, you
would forgive him most anything if you could see him handle card-board.
We pulled him for a 'vag.' one night about four months ago; and, just to
find out how he did things, I played a little game with him after we let
him go on promise to quit. We put the stakes about as low as they could
be put--five-cent ante, and twenty-five cent limit--just for the
experiment. Now, sir, you would be surprised. He cheated me from the
word 'go,' and I don't know yet how it was done. If he dealt the cards
he would get an all-fired hand himself, and if I dealt him nothing he'd
bluff me right up the chimney. For poker he has no match, I believe. All
I know about that game is that I lost three dollars in thirty minutes."
"Perhaps you have his record written down somewhere?" said Jack, feeling
sick at heart, and yet fascinated by the account of Faro-Joseph.
"Perhaps we have," said the superintendent, smiling toward one of the
loungers near by. "Just come in this way."
The superintendent opened a large case like a wardrobe, and began
flapping back a large number of thin flat wings that all worked on
separate hinges. These wings were covered with photographs of
criminals--a terrible collection of faces--and from one of them he took
a very fair likeness of our clerical friend in another dress. Pasted at
the back of the photograph was a folded paper containing a list in fine
writing of his known convictions and suspected offenses for a period of
over forty years. He had been burglar, counterfeiter, and forger, which
the superintendent called the 'heavy business' that he had given up.
Since those earlier days he had been train-gambler, confidence-man, and
sneak-thief.
There was nothing to be done. Faro-Joseph never had been a clergyman. To
put the law in force was out of the question for several reasons. Jack
got away to catch his train for Toronto and to think and think what it
would be best to do about Nina, and where and how they could get married
properly.