the reward of five years of servitude, the most vile and degraded
that ever bound man to his fellow man. A noble harvest have I
reaped, for seed that I have sown!--a glorious close to my labors!
But it is what I might have looked for. Ah! Michael Rust! well have
you carried out your schemes!--a pleasant part have you played in
my family! You have sent child and wife both to their graves; the
one dishonored, the other broken-hearted; and now, a prison for the
father. Be it so, Michael Rust; but the game is not yours yet. If
you win it, it must be at the cost of a struggle, which will rack
all your sinews. I do not understand this claim,' said he, in a
musing tone; 'three thousand dollars?' I owe _him_ nothing. What can
it be? 'Edward Kornicker, attorney.' Who's he?' he asked, raising
his eyes from the paper to those of Mr. Chicken. 'I never heard of
him.'
Mr. Chicken drew down the corners of his mouth, and smiled; at the
same time saying, that Mr. Kornicker was a young man of some merit,
but rather wild--a _little_ wild.
Having said this, he took a seat in the vacant chair, and placed
his hat on the table; at the same time telling Mr. Grosket that he
did not wish to hurry him, but that if he had any bail to offer, he
would go with him in search of it. If he hadn't, he would be under
the less pleasant necessity of escorting him to gaol; and in either
case, that he, the said Mr. Chicken, being a public functionary, and
much pressed by business, would take it as a personal favor if Mr.
Grosket would hasten his movements as much as possible.
Grosket shook his head, despairingly.
'No,' said he; 'the sum is too large--six thousand dollars! I know
of no one who will become bail for me in such an amount. Had it come
but a day later, one single day later,' said he, clasping his hands
tightly together, 'and _he_, not _I_ would have been the victim!'
'Well, Sir,' said Mr. Chicken, 'there being no bail, in course
there is no alternative. You must go to gaol; rooms small, but well
ventilated. You'll find yourself very comfortable there arter a
fortnight or so. There _is_ folks that quite like the place.'
Grosket made no reply to this comforting remark; but stood with his
hand resting on the table, and his brows knit in deep thought. At
last he said, as if coming to some sudden resolution:
'At least, it's worth the trial. I am working for _him_, and if
I fail I shall be no worse off than I now am. Come,' said he; 'I
know a man who I think will become bail for me. If he don't--if he
don't,' said he in an under tone. 'Well, well, I'll try it.'
'Who is he?' inquired Mr. Chicken, cautiously.
'No matter,' replied Grosket; 'you'll see presently.'
Mr. Chicken felt far from satisfied with this reply. It had a
tincture of evasion about it; and a vague apprehension of receiving
no other bail than that cheap and convenient kind, generally known
as 'Leg-bail,' flitted across his imagination, puzzling him not a
little; for Grosket was a brawny fellow, whose thews and sinews
were not to be trifled with. Mr. Chicken thought that he was in a
crisis; and was beginning seriously to deliberate on the propriety
of raising a hue-and-cry on the spot, without waiting for farther
indication of a disposition to escape, when the prisoner, apparently
observing his perplexity, cut it short, by adding:
'Don't be frightened, my old fellow; I'm acting in good faith. If I
don't get bail, I'll go with you as quietly as you could wish.'
'And you are out-and-out in earnest? You mean to get it? No gammon,
is there?'
'I'll get it if I can: If I can't, I'm your prisoner. I'll play you
no tricks.'
'Good!' ejaculated the deputy-sheriff, quietly pocketing his writ,
and placing his hat on his head. 'I'm your man now; which way do you
want to go?'
Grosket named the direction; and in a few moments they were on their
way to Jacob Rhoneland's.
* * * * *
CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.
FOR a long time Enoch Grosket and the sheriff's deputy walked on
without exchanging a word; but as they proceeded, Grosket's brow
began to darken, his lips were firmly set together, and his pace
quickened until his companion could scarcely keep up with him.
'Come on, Sir,' said Enoch, abruptly turning to him. 'Michael Rust
is the devil, but he has driven to desperation one whom he has
drilled in all his ways; and who has had a hand in all his dark
doings for years. Let him look to himself. He may chain the body,
but my tongue shall speak. Ah! Michael Rust! Michael Rust! you were
never nearer destruction than when you thought me in your power!'
His speed soon increased to such a degree, that although Mr. Chicken
had apparently been constituted with an especial eye to rapid
locomotion, yet that gentleman's lower members were kept at their
full stretch. Once or twice the deputy suggested to his companion
that the day was warm for the season, and that he had been more
active twenty years ago; to both of which remarks Grosket assented,
without in the least diminishing his speed; nor did he pause to draw
breath until they had reached Rhoneland's house.
'This is the place,' said Grosket. 'If he's wise, he'll not refuse
me.'
He knocked at the door, which was opened by Kate. She knew neither
of them; and in reply to his question, informed him that her father
was at home. Grosket paused for a moment as his eye rested on her
bright face; and something like a tear rose in it, as he thought of
his own lost child; but he checked the feeling which induced it, and
turning, said:
'So you're his daughter?'
'His only child,' replied Kate, anxiously.
'Poor child!' muttered Grosket; 'God help her!'
He muttered this rather to himself than to her; and passed in; but
neither his manner nor the words, low as was the tone in which
they were spoken, escaped her; and with a heart sinking with
apprehension, of she knew not what, for the appearance of any
stranger at the house filled her with dread now, she admitted him
into the room where her father was.
It was the same poorly-furnished apartment in which the old man was
when first introduced to the reader. He occupied the same seat, and
sat almost in the same attitude, with his hands clasped over his
knees, his chin bowed down on his breast, his dark eyes peering
from beneath his shaggy white brows, and apparently watching the
crumbling embers in the fire-place. His face was wan and haggard,
even beyond its wont; and he had a watchful, suspicious look, which
was not natural to him. As the door opened, he started, glanced
quickly at the strangers, then at his daughter, as if she and they
were in some manner associated in his mind.
'Don't go, Kate! don't go! I want you here,' said he, in a quick,
anxious tone, seeing that she was closing the door without entering;
'don't go, my child. Our business is no secret.'
As he said this, he cast an inquiring look at the two, to ascertain
that he was correct, and pointed with a hesitating finger to a chair.
Mr. Chicken bowed gratefully, took it immediately, removed his hat,
placed his cane between his knees, ran his fingers through his hair,
and looked up at the ceiling, after the manner of persons who are
occasionally present at interviews in which they have no concern,
and in which they have no intention of meddling.
Grosket, however, stood where he was, with his hat on, looking
steadily in the agitated face of the old man. At last he said:
'So you don't know me?'
Rhoneland eyed him for a long time; at last he shook his head.
'Yet you _ought_ to,' said Grosket, in the same tone. 'Look at me
again.'
Again the old man bent his eyes upon his face, and studied his
features; and certainly they were not of a character to be easily
forgotten; but again he was at fault; he did not know him.
'It's strange!' muttered the other; 'a friend is often forgotten,
but an enemy rarely. My name is Grosket--Enoch Grosket.'
A bright flush passed over the old man's face, as he heard the name,
and he half rose from his chair. 'Yes, yes,' said he, quickly; 'I
know now; the friend of Michael Rust. Kate,' said he, suddenly
turning to the girl, who was leaning over his chair; 'you can
go--go, Kate; leave the room, my child. This is only a friend of Mr.
Rust's.'
'It's scarcely worth while,' said Grosket, 'for what I have to say
of Rust will soon be spoken in the open day; ay, in his teeth will
I fling my charges; before the whole world will I make them; I will
brand him with a mark that he will carry to his grave! No, no, Jacob
Rhoneland. I'm _not_ a friend of Michael Rust, and he'll find it so.
I've too many wrongs to settle with him, for that.'
'Not a friend of his!' ejaculated Rhoneland; 'then what brings you
_here_? Don't you know that I am his friend?--an old friend? He
calls me his best friend.'
Grosket's lip curled, as he answered:
'_That_ friendship has lasted too long for the good of one of you.
I need not mention who that one is. I am come to end it. He was my
friend once. God save me from another like him! God! how he loved
me!' said he, setting his teeth; 'and in return,' added he, in a
cold tone, 'don't I love him now? Such a love! Give me but life and
liberty, life and liberty,' said he, dropping his assumed tone, and
breaking out in a burst of fierce vehemence, 'and by every hope
that man can have, I swear to crush him; to grind him to the earth,
body and soul; to blight him as he has blighted others; and as far
as man can do so, to thwart every scheme, wither every hope, and to
make him drag out his life, a vile, spurned, detested object, hated
by man, driven from the pale of society, with every transgression
stamped upon him, and beyond redemption in this world! What his
prospects may be hereafter, none can tell but HIM.' He raised his
hat reverently as he spoke, and his tone from high excitement,
calmed into deep solemnity.
'My errand here,' said he, turning to Rhoneland, 'is simple; my
story a short one. I was Michael Rust's friend--his tool, if you
will. Through his agency I am a beggar, and my wife and child are
in their graves. This did not satisfy him. I am now arrested at his
suit for a debt of three thousand dollars, of which I know nothing.
I cannot pay it. I have not that sum in the world; but I cannot go
to prison. It would frustrate all my views. I must be at large to
work. Let me have but a month of freedom, and Michael Rust will be
glad to exonerate me from all claims, and to beg me on his knees to
stand his friend. I am come to ask you to be my bail. The sum is six
thousand dollars.'
'Me! _me!_' exclaimed Rhoneland; 'ME your bail! and against Michael
Rust!--my friend Rust! Oh, no; never, never!'
'It's more for your interest than mine,' replied Grosket, calmly.
'If you do not, you'll repent it.'
Rhoneland twisted his fingers one in the other, and looked
irresolutely at his daughter, and at the deputy, and then at
Grosket, as if seeking counsel in their faces. At last he said, in a
querulous tone:
'You're a stranger to me. I don't know you. Why do you speak in
riddles? Why do you come here to harass a broken-down old man? What
do you mean?'
'I mean _this_,' replied Grosket: 'Michael Rust is your friend
because you _dare_ not be his enemy. You _love_ him because you
dare not _hate_ him. You pray night and day to be rid of him. You
would think it the brightest day in your life when, all connection
between you dissolved, he left your door to darken it no more. He
has a hold on your fears, with which he sways you to his will, and
which he will make the means of ruin to you, and of wretchedness
to those dearer to you than yourself. I speak of _her_,' said he,
seeing the old man looking timidly up in the face of Kate, who still
hung over his chair, pale as death, but listening to every word. 'I
know his secrets, his crimes, the tools with which he works; the
very falsehood which he has fabricated against you, which you cannot
disprove, but which _I_ can.'
'Falsehoods!' ejaculated Rhoneland.
'Yes, falsehoods. The time is come when, even with you, he must
stand revealed in his true character.'
He stepped close to Rhoneland and whispered a few words in his
ear. The old man sank back in his chair, as if seized with sudden
faintness; his jaw relaxed, and his eyes half started from his head.
His prostration lasted but for a moment. The next instant he started
up, made a step toward Grosket, and grasped his hand in both of his.
'Can you save me? can you save me?' gasped he; 'Oh! do--_do_, for
God's sake!'
'I can,' replied Grosket.
'And her, _her_? my own child?' exclaimed he, pointing to his
daughter.
'So help me God, I think I can!' said Grosket, earnestly; but to
do so, I must be free; free only for one month. At the end of that
time, if I fail, the gaol may have its prey. Get me that delay, and
I have no fears for the rest.'
'Here's the document,' said Mr. Chicken, emerging from a profound
revery, at the very moment that it was most requisite that his wits
should be present, and producing a paper. 'I'll fill it up; you can
sign it to once-t, and acknowledge it arterward.'
Rhoneland had reached out his hand to take the paper, but suddenly
he hesitated and drew it back.
'Must _he_ know this?' inquired he. 'Is there no way in which it can
be kept from _him_?'
Grosket looked at the deputy, who looked at the wall, and said that
he 'didn't know as it could be perwented, convenient.'
'Then you must choose between us,' said Grosket, coldly; 'I have
said enough to satisfy you that I have the same power over you that
Rust has, did I but choose to exert it. In suffering me to go to
prison you are permitting him to fetter the only person who can
defeat his schemes, who can free you from his control, and prevent
your child from being--Mrs. Rust.'
'I'd die first! I'd die first!' exclaimed the old man, franticly.
'Me he might do with as he pleased, but he shall not harm _you_,
Kate. I'll do it, I'll do it, for _your_ sake, my child!' said he,
turning to her, and clasping her convulsively to him. 'Come what
may, I'll do it. Come, Sir; I'm ready,' said he. 'I'll go at once.
Lose no time, not a minute. Why do you wait?' said he, impatiently.
Without heeding him, Grosket went up to Kate, and took her hand
respectfully: 'Trust me, no harm will come of this to him. At all
events, none compared with what would have befallen both of you,
had Michael Rust succeeded in his plans. If ever there was a man in
this world in whom the devil seems to live and move, it is Michael
Rust. His sagacity and shrewdness have hitherto given him success;
and hitherto he has laughed at law, and baffled detection; but his
race is nearly run. He or I must fall; and of this one thing I am
certain, _I_ shall not. Now, Sir,' said he, turning to Rhoneland,
'we'll go. But I'm puzzled where to look for another bail.'
'I shan't be perticklar about that,' said Mr. Chicken, quietly; 'I
know something about Jacob Rhoneland, and he's good enough for me.
We'll get this acknowledged, and then you may go.'
Rhoneland went to the door, and opening it, led the way into the
street.
Many important events in life balance upon the doings of a moment;
and had Rhoneland lingered but five minutes longer he would never
have linked himself to Grosket; for not that time had elapsed after
their departure, when the door of the room where Kate was still
sitting alone was thrown open, and Michael Rust entered. His look
was eager, and his usually slow, shuffling step was rapid.
'Where's Jacob?' said he, looking round.
'He's gone out,' replied Kate, coldly.
'Gone out!' repeated he; and then suddenly changing his manner, he
said: 'Well, I wanted him; but he has left you in his place. It was
kind in him. He knew that I was coming, Kate; that I doted on you;
that there was nothing I loved like a little chat with you, and he
couldn't have the heart to disappoint me; so he let you remain. Ah!
Kate! troubles are thickening upon me. Don't you sympathize with me,
Kate? I _know_ you do. I'm _sure_ you do. You're a noble girl!'
As he spoke, he advanced and took her hand. Kate drew it from him
with an air of marked coldness; but not at all discouraged, he said:
'The sweetest hour of my life is when I steal away to sit by your
side, Kate; to gaze in your face, and watch your eye as it peeps
from under its long lashes, and the smile of your pouting, cherry
lip. Ah! Kate!'
'Mr. Rust, this is really very unpleasant,' said Kate, with some
anger in her manner. 'As my father's friend, you are welcome to this
house. As his friend, also, you should not forget what is due to
his daughter, and should refrain from a style of conversation which
cannot but be offensive.'
'How sweetly she speaks!' continued Rust, in his old strain; 'how
charmingly she looks when excited! Ah! Kate, you're a little devil;
you've made sad havoc here!' said he, placing his hand on his
heart--'sad havoc!'
'Mr. Rust,' returned Kate, angrily, 'unless you end this
conversation, either you or I must leave the room.'
'Well, well, I don't believe you're in earnest, Kate; on my soul I
don't; but I will drop it; but one favor--grant me only one favor.
It's not a great one. I know you'll grant it, you're such an angel.'
Kate looked at him without speaking, and he went on:
'One kiss, Kate; one single, sweet kiss from my own dear darling, to
comfort me amid my misfortunes!'
Kate Rhoneland started up, her eyes flashing fire. 'Leave this
house, Sir!'
'Ho! ho! how sweetly she orders!' exclaimed Rust, advancing toward
her; 'how bright her eyes are! how the rich color plays along her
cheek! how beautiful my own Kate is! 'Leave this house,' indeed! The
thing's impossible, with such a charmer within it. Come, Kate; one
kiss--_only_ one; I'll tell no one, not even Ned. Upon my soul, I
won't tell Ned.'
Kate made an attempt to spring past him, but he caught her by her
dress, drew her to him, threw his arms about her waist, and pressed
his lips to hers.
It was a dear kiss to him; for while she was struggling in his
grasp, the door opened, a heavy blow lighted on his head, and he
fell like a stone on the floor.
'If he's dead, be it so!' said a stern voice. But it was not so.
For a moment he lay like one who had seen his last sun; then he
staggered up, pressed his hands to his temples, looked about him
with a bewildered air, until his eyes encountered those of Jacob
Rhoneland, bright with passion, and his whole frame quivering with
rage. Gradually Rust's faculties began to rally, until he and
Rhoneland stood gazing face to face.
'So it was _you_, was it, good Jacob?' said he, moving to the door.
'Thank you, my kind friend; I'll not forget you! Farewell, good
Jacob. To your dying day you shall have cause to remember that you
struck Michael Rust.' He bowed profoundly to them, shut the door,
and went out.
EPIGRAM: FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.
THOU gazest on the stars, my Star,
And would I were the sky,
To view thy lovely face afar
With many a burning eye!
W. H. W.
THE PRINTER.
'THE printer, in his folio, heraldeth the world. Now come
tidings of weddings, maskings, mummeries, entertainments,
jubilees, wars, fires, inundations, thefts, murders, massacres,
meteors, comets, spectrums, prodigies, shipwrecks, piracies,
sea-fights, law-suits, pleas, proclamations, embassies,
trophies, triumphs, revels, sports, plays; then again, as in
a new-shifted scene, treasons, cheating-tricks, robberies,
enormous villanies in all kinds, funerals, burials, new
discoveries, expeditions; now comical then tragical matters.
To-day we hear of new offices created, to-morrow of great men
deposed, and then again of fresh honors conferred; one is let
loose, another prisoned; one purchaseth, another breaketh; he
thrives, his neighbor turneth bankrupt; now plenty, then again
dearth and famine; one runs, another rides, wrangles, laughs,
weeps, and so forth. Thus do we daily hear such like, both
public and private news.'
OLD BORTON.
HE stood there alone at that shadowy hour,
By the swinging lamp dimly burning;
All silent within, save the ticking type,
All without, save the night-watch turning;
And heavily echoed the solemn sound,
As slowly he paced o'er the frozen ground.
And dark were the mansions so lately that shone,
With the joy of festivity gleaming,
And hearts that were beating in sympathy then,
Were now living it o'er in their dreaming;
Yet the PRINTER still worked at his lonely post,
As slowly he gathered his mighty host.
And there lay the merchant all pillowed in down,
And building bright hopes for the morrow,
Nor dreamed he that Fate was then waving a wand
That would bring to him fear and sorrow;
Yet the PRINTER was there in his shadowy room,
And he set in his frame-work that rich man's doom!
The young wife was sleeping, whom lately had bound
The ties that death only can sever;
And dreaming she started, yet woke with a smile,
For she thought they were parted for ever!
But the PRINTER was clicking the types that would tell
On the morrow _the truth_ of that midnight spell!
And there lay the statesman, whose feverish brow
And restless, the pillow was pressing,
For he felt through the shadowy mist of his dream
His loftiest hopes now possessing;
Yet the PRINTER worked on, mid silence and gloom,
And dug for Ambition its lowliest tomb.
And slowly that workman went gathering up
His budget of grief and of gladness;
A wreath for the noble, a grave for the low,
For the happy, a full cup of sadness;
Strange stories of wonder, to enchant the ear,
And dark ones of terror, to curdle with fear.
Full strange are the tales which that dark host shall bear
To palace and cot on the morrow;
Oh welcome, thrice welcome, to many a heart!
To many a bearer of sorrow;
It shall go like the wild and wandering air,
For life and its changes are impressed there.
_Boston, August, 1843._ MODUS.
CÀ ET LÀ.
BY THE FLANEUR.
WHAT was Mr. Liner's plan? We will give it shortly, and hurry to a
conclusion. He packed up his daughter and despatched her to Boston
by Harnden's Express, in the month of September, carefully directed
to a maternal uncle who resided there. With her went a letter
explaining his peculiar situation. How Mrs. Liner and himself were
afraid that their daughter, although now a '_dame charmante de
vingt six ans moins un mois_,' might become a middle-aged, ay, a
very middle-aged single lady; how all her friends had married about
her, even to Frederica Frizzle, who, like the Colossus of Rhodes,
was very tall and very brazen; how Shuffleshanks had loved and
died, leaving no sign; how the young man from Tobolsk had offered
himself and been refused, and how the _sparks_ no longer _flew up_
when she appeared. That, in short, he despaired of settling her at
home, although she was rich; as the New-Yorkers have an invincible
aversion to any thing that has been long on hand; and Catharine,
though certainly not _passée_ was as certainly _passante_. He
therefore requested the uncle to introduce her in Boston as a
widow; the relict of a rich planter who died in New-Orleans of the
yellow fever, leaving his wife the fee simple of all his slaves
and half-breeds. To which the uncle willingly consented, as he
was promised a handsome percentage if he succeeded; and Catharine
herself was nothing loth, for she yearned to get married; and
deceit, as we will prove one of these days, is the ground-work of
the female character.
So Miss Liner was shipped; as old fashioned goods often are, in
newer boxes. The bill of lading was marked thus:
[Illustration:
=1 PACKAGE.=
/ \
L
\ / DEMOISELLE À MARIER.]
Mr. Liner was confident that she would arrive safe, as her case was
the very antipodes of the vinous accident alluded to in scripture.
Here ends the authentic history of Miss Liner. All else is either
fabulous or deeply tinged with mythology. But it is at least certain
that her widowhood allowed her to be so much more lively and
fascinating, and explained so satisfactorily why she was single at
her age; and her fortune came in so strongly and opportunely to urge
on admirers, that in less than a month she was engaged, and in less
than two, married. Our uncle pocketed his commission and kept his
secret.
After Catharine Julia had left New-York on her marital journey, a
small closely-written sheet of paper was found in her room, which
was evidently intended for publication. She said in a short preface
that she took the idea from Shuffleshanks, and that after his death,
in her pensive moments, when
... 'oft at even as she sat
In a little summer-house in the garden without a hat,'
her experience of society shaped itself into the following rules,
which she resolved to leave as a legacy to the beau sexe of the beau
monde, among whom she had so long been conspicuous:
'RULES FOR BECOMING A PERFECT _ZAZA_.
'The accomplished belle, flowered, flounced, fanning, figuring,
flirting, flinging herself in all directions with the timidity
of the gazelle, and its endurance, approaches to the grand ideal
of belles; the peerless _Zaza_.
'Zazas are like Pachas of one, two, or three tails; (no double
entendre meant.) A _Zaza_ of one tail has one or two regular
beaux; one of two tails has five or six; one of three tails
has as many as she pleases. This is the summit of _Zazaism_.
A demoiselle with no beaux is a nobody; (_nobeaudy_;) a poor
creature; something quite despicable.