JAMES GREY'S RESIDENCE.
About a mile from the bank of the Mississippi River, in the small town
of Clayton, stood a handsome house. It was on a commanding site, and
could be seen by the travelers bound up the river, from the decks of
the large river-boats. It stood in lonely grandeur, with no other
houses very near, and those that were within a respectful distance from
it were far inferior. The occupant might be judged to be, in his
neighborhood, a person of some consideration.
This was the mansion of James Grey, already introduced to our readers.
What motives had led him to pitch his tent in such a spot, can only be
conjectured. He came thither directly from the city of Cincinnati,
having lived in a hotel near by while he hurried the erection of this
house. He came thither with his son, (his wife was dead), and had lived
there ever since, though, from time to time, he absented himself on a
trip to St. Louis, or, in rarer instances, Cincinnati. It is not
unlikely that, knowing himself to be guilty of a fraudulent
appropriation of his nephew's property, he had chosen to withdraw from
the busy world, and plant himself in this comparatively obscure place,
where he was not likely to be visited by any one cognizant of the
manner in which he obtained his money.
Indeed, until his visit to New York, three years before, he had not
supposed there was any one living so cognizant. He had seen a rumor
that the vessel in which Jacob and his young charge went out to
Australia was wrecked, and he imagined, or rather hoped, and so
persuaded himself, that his dangerous nephew and his guilty accomplice
were dead. But his recognition of the boy who blacked his boots on the
steps of the Astor House undeceived him as to this point. Still, it
seemed altogether unlikely that the boy would ever become aware of his
identity.
"If he does," thought James Grey, "he is not likely to find me here on
the banks of the Mississippi, fifteen hundred miles away."
According to the doctrine of probabilities, he was doubtless correct.
It was not likely, but then events often bid defiance to the
probabilities, and such was the case now.
At the time we introduce Mr. Grey at home, he was sitting at breakfast
in a handsome breakfast-room, from the windows of which the river was
visible. He held in his hand a copy of a St. Louis morning paper of the
morning previous, and was reading its columns, while sipping a cup of
coffee at his side.
A boy of seventeen entered the room.
"You are very late, Jasper," said his father, consulting his watch.
"Can't you get to breakfast earlier than ten o'clock, sir?"
Jasper was dark and effeminate in appearance, not strong and sturdy,
nor had he the look of self-reliance and calm power which characterized
our hero, who was his cousin. He was smooth, deceitful, and vain,
running to dissipation, as far as he had opportunity.
"I was tired, sir," he answered.
"What made you tired?"
"I didn't get home till late last evening."
"Where had you been?"
"I was at Alton."
"Without my permission," said his father, frowning.
"I am seventeen, sir. I am old enough to go off by myself."
"By heavens, you are not!" said his father, angrily. "It seems to me,
sir, you are getting mighty independent."
"There is nothing to do here in this hole," said Jasper, disdainfully.
"I get tired of moping here."
"I manage to content myself here," said Mr. Grey.
"I don't see how you do it," said Jasper, shrugging his shoulders.
"Well, what did you do at Alton?"
"Not much. I just went up there in the morning, and came back at night.
I didn't have long to stay."
"I missed you at dinner, but thought you were out riding."
"I am going out to ride after breakfast. By the way, father, can you
give me a little money?"
"Money! I gave you twenty-five dollars three days since."
"I haven't got a dime left."
"What did you do with it, you young spendthrift? Gambled on the boat, I
dare say."
"Well, I had a little game," answered Jasper, coolly.
"And lost?"
"Yes, I lost."
"Of course. You are too green to cope with the sharpers that infest
those boats. Haven't I forbidden you to play?"
"There was nothing else to do."
"You appear to pay very slight regard to my commands. In return I shall
allow you to know what it is to be penniless for a time."
"Won't you give me any money, father?"
"No, I won't."
Jasper looked dark and sullen. He was an utterly spoiled boy, if one
can be called spoiled, who had so few good qualities which admitted of
being spoiled. He inherited his father's bad traits, his selfishness
and unscrupulousness, in addition to a spirit of deceitfulness and
hypocrisy from his mother's nature. He was not as censurable as he
would have been had he not possessed these bad tendencies.
He finished his breakfast and went out.
"That's a model son to have--a son to be proud of," soliloquized his
father. "He is already a gambler, a liar, and cares for me only as I
have it in my power to promote his selfish ends. I have let him grow up
like an evil weed, and I am afraid he will some day disgrace me."
Though himself unscrupulous and bad, Mr. Grey would have been glad to
have his son better than himself. In his secret heart he felt the
superiority of Gilbert to his cousin. Yet Jasper, with all his faults,
was his son, and the wily father schemed to secure to him the property
which belonged to his nephew.
He was interrupted by the entrance of a colored servant.
Pompey had originally been a slave, as he showed by his language at
times.
"Well, Pompey, have you been to the post-office?"
"Yes, sar."
"I suppose you found a paper for me, didn't you?"
"No, massa, didn't see nothing of no paper," said Pompey; "but I found
this letter," and he displayed a letter in a yellow envelope.
"Give it to me."
Mr. Grey took it in his hand, and saw that it was post-marked
"Cincinnati." The handwriting he did not recognize. His curiosity was
aroused.
"You can go, Pompey," he said, waving his hand.
"I'm gone, massa."
James Grey tore open the letter hastily, and turned at once to the
signature.
"Maurice Walton!" he repeated. "Why that's my young spy. It must be
about my nephew."
He read with eager interest:
"DEAR SIR:--(so it commenced) You asked me to write you if anything
happened. I think you will like to know that your nephew, Gilbert
Grey, if he is your nephew, which I doubt, has just left here for
St. Louis. I suppose, from what I can learn, that he is in search
of you. I don't think he has any idea where you really live. He has
not learned from me, for I hate him, and I won't tell him anything
he wants to know. I didn't know but you might happen to be in St.
Louis, so I write to put you on your guard. I hope you will write
to me, so that I may know this letter went straight.
"Yours, respectfully,
"MAURICE WALTON."
"He wants me to write to him, inclosing ten dollars," thought James
Grey. "Well, he shall not be disappointed. His information is worth
that. So my young nephew is on the trail is he? He really thinks he is
a match for me. Well, well, we shall see. He mustn't push his inquiries
too far, or he may find me dangerous," and Mr. Grey's face assumed a
dark and threatening look. "However, he is not likely to find me in
this out-of-the-way place."
Mr. Grey went into his library, and penned a short letter to Maurice
Walton, commending him for his watchfulness, and inclosing a ten-dollar
greenback.
He had scarcely finished the letter when Pompey entered, and said:
"Scuse me, massa, but there's a young gemman below that axes to see
you."
"A young gentleman!" repeated Mr. Grey. "Can it be my nephew?" flashed
through his mind with sudden suspicion.
"Bring him up, Pompey," he said, aloud.