A patient, plodding man was Charles Evans—a man who had made his own
fortune, and was perfectly sure that every man might do the same who
chose to mind his own business and keep at work, and not spend money or
time. He went to election and voted, and went home without drinking a
“brandy-smasher,” or a “whiskey-toddy.” He was a democrat when he had no
property to protect, and when he had acquired wealth, he had got in the
habit of being a democrat—and his democracy was his religion, his Faith
in Human Brotherhood. He immured himself in a living tomb in Wall street
all day, and worked half the night at his home in William street,
beside. It was here that Edward Evans found him, the evening after his
wife’s funeral.
“How are you, Ned?” said Charles, glancing at him to see if he were
sober, and then continued to fold and direct letters, seeming a little
nervous under the infliction of a visit from his worthless cousin.
“I have been very unfortunate,” said Ned, a good deal troubled how to
penetrate his thick-skinned cousin.
“I never knew you otherwise,” said Charles, and he wrote on.
“I mean, I have had the bad fortune to bury my wife.”
“Very good fortune for her,” said his cousin, but he dropped his pen and
regarded the weed on Ned’s hat. “I did not notice that you were in
mourning. So Fanny is dead. It is a long time since I have seen her. She
died of a broken-heart, I suppose, you will allow.”
“She bled to death from her lungs.”
“All the same. Pity it had not been you.”
“I came to see you about the child. She wished me to give her to you.”
“To ME,” said his cousin, starting with real astonishment. “What could I
do with a child, and a child who could never see her father again if she
were to live with me? How old is she?”
“I don’t justly remember,” said Ned.
“Is there a race-horse in the city whose age you don’t remember? How
long did it take you to kill your wife—do you know that? How long have
you been a drunkard and a devil? How long have you eaten when your wife
and child starved? How long have you hid them where even I could not
find them—can you tell me that, you decently dressed vagabond? I’ll
warrant your wife is clad as warmly in her grave as she was out of it.”
Ned could answer nothing. He was a wretch—and he had the good sense to
know it. He had not the slightest respect for himself, but he wanted his
child taken care of; then, if he had a pint of brandy, and six feet of
rope, he _thought_ he would comfort himself with the brandy, and hang
himself with the rope; but then he had a great liking for cards and a
decent rig, and it is probable that while luck, or loaded dice, gave him
broadcloth and brandy, he would have laid up the rope against a lack of
either, which he would have considered a decided reverse of fortune.
“I promised my wife that I would give the girl to you. If you will take
her, I will go to the South, and never show my face here again.”
“What on earth am I to do with a child? My old blind aunt can’t see to
herself and me—how is she to take care of another? But it is a
temptation to be rid of you. How does the girl look?”
The father was again at a loss.
“Oh, you don’t know—what color is Kenny’s horse, Eclipse? How many
hands high is he, and how old? How far can he run in ten minutes and
thirteen seconds?”
“Once for all—will you take the girl?” said the man whose life was
exhausted by dissipation and excitement into an apathy that resembled
patience. “She will have to go to the Almshouse if you don’t, and your
blood is in her veins. She is your grandmother’s grandchild.”
“I _would_ like you to be the only one of our blood who should die in
the Almshouse; but I say again—what am I to do with the child? I can
only take her as a servant.”
“Make a slave of your own blood if you like,” replied the father, whose
stupid apathy was pierced at last. “She had better serve you than serve
the devil. She is a good, serviceable child.”
“O, you know that, do you? No doubt you know all about that. Look you,
Ned Evans, I owe you no service. I have earned every dollar I have,
whilst you have squandered a fortune twice as large as mine, of your
own, and another for your wife, whilst you have been a sponge to soak
brandy, a gambler and a stool-pigeon for gamblers, and have made
acquaintance with every horse-dealer and all the horse-flesh in the
Union, and have murdered your wife by inches, till at the age of 29
years, an age when she should be as fresh as a new-blown rose, and with
her fortune living as well as any lady in the land, you have done her
the last and only kindness you ever did her—you have bought her a pine
coffin, and have seen her buried. But though I know you ought to be
hung, I will make a bargain with you. I will see you on board a vessel
bound for New Orleans, with your passage paid, and take your child. You
agree to go to New Orleans. When once you are there, I have no fear of
you or your ghost ever appearing to me again. On these conditions I will
take the child.”
“When must I sail for New Orleans? I’ll go after Monday. The race with
Eclipse and Black Bess comes off then. I have agreed to ride for Kenny.
I know the horse better than anybody else. Besides, a fellow must keep
his word.”
“Very good,” said Charles, after a moment’s thought. “You _may_ break
your neck, and save me the passage-money. I agree to that—any thing
more?”
“When may I bring the girl?”
“To-morrow morning at 6 o’clock.”
“That’s too early to wake her,” mumbled Ned.
“Then, or not at all. You can keep sober one night, and get up in decent
season one morning in your life, for the sake of getting your child a
situation.”
If a particle of Ned Evans’ old spirit had been left, this taunt of
getting his daughter a situation would have roused it. But his life was
crushed. He was hopelessly besotted and exhausted, though now he had
decent clothes, for which he had sacrificed the last remnant of decent
feeling he possessed. These clothes belonged to the keeper of the vilest
Hell in New York; and Ned was his “decoy-duck,” and did any job the
fellow set him about.
He was as craven before his cousin as possible. He had one instinct of
his nature left—he wanted to provide for his child.
“I will be here at the time, so help me God,” said he—and he kept his
word. It was the last right act of his life. As if to make his cousin
out a prophet, he rode Eclipse, and broke his neck in earnest, though
not in “_sober_ earnest.”
When Charles Evans heard of it, he only said, “One poor devil less in
the world;” but he murmured to himself, as he turned away, “Poor Cousin
Ned!”