seemed almost savage, from the laugh which accompanied it. 'Isn't that a
sweet death-chamber for one who all her life has had every thing that
money could buy?'
The doctor glanced in the room, then at the fierce, excited face of his
companion. 'Come, come,' said he, in a kind tone, taking Kornicker's hand;
'don't give way to these feelings. She'll be well taken care of now. Harry
Harson never does a good action by halves. Come in.'
He pushed the door open very gently, and went to the bed. The girl seemed
sleeping, for she did not move. He took the candle, and held it so that
the light fell on her face. He then placed his hand gently upon her wrist.
He kept it there for some moments, then held up the light again, and
looked at her face; after which he placed it on the floor, rose up, and
took a long survey of the room.
'It's a wretched place,' said he, speaking in a whisper. 'She must have
suffered terribly here.'
'This is the way the poor live,' said Kornicker, in a low, bitter tone;
'this is the way _she_ has lived; but we'll save her from dying so.'
The doctor looked at him, and then turned away and bit his lip:
'What are you going to do for her?' demanded Kornicker, after a pause:
'have you medicine with you?'
'She requires nothing now,' said the doctor, in a tone scarcely above a
whisper. 'She's dead!'
Kornicker hastily took the light, and bent over her. He remained thus for
a long time; and when he rose, his eyes were filled with tears.
'I'm sorry I left her,' said he, in a vain effort to speak in his usual
tones. 'It was very hard that she should die alone. I acted for the best;
but d--n it, I'm always wrong!'
He dashed his fist across his face, walked to the window and looked out.
At that moment the door opened, and Harson entered, his face somewhat
attempered in its joyous expression; and close behind followed the
house-keeper with a large basket.
'How is she?' asked he, in a subdued tone.
Kornicker made no reply, but looked resolutely out of the window, and
snuffed profusely. It would not have been manly to show that the large
tears were coursing down his cheeks. Harson threw an inquiring glance at
the doctor, who answered by a shake of the head: 'She was dead when we got
here.'
Harson went to the bed, and put back the long tresses from her face. There
was much in that face to sadden the old man's heart. Had it been that of
an old person, of one who had lived out her time, and had been gathered
in, in due season, he would have thought less of it; but it was sad indeed
to see one in the first blush of youth, scarcely more than a child,
stricken down and dying in such a place, and so desolate.
'Was there no one with her--not a soul?' inquired Harson, earnestly, as he
rose; 'not one human being, to breathe a word of comfort in her ear, or to
whisper a kind word to cheer her on her long journey?'
The doctor shook his head: 'No one.' Harson's lips quivered, but he
pressed them tightly together, and turning to Kornicker said:
'Come, my good fellow, you must struggle against your feelings; you must
not be downcast about it. She's better off than if she had lived--much
better off.'
'I'm not in the least downcast,' replied Kornicker, in a very resolute
manner; 'I don't care a straw about it. She was nothing to me; only it's a
little disagreeable to be living in this world without a soul to care for,
or a soul that cares for you; and then there was some satisfaction in
being of use to some one, and in feeling it was your duty to see that no
one imposed on her, or ill treated her; but no matter; it's all over now.
I suppose it's all right; and I feel quite cheerful, I assure you. But
you'll look to her, will you? I can be of no farther use here, and I'd
rather go.'
'I will,' said Harson.
'You won't let her be buried as a pauper, I hope?'
'No, upon my honor she shall not,' replied Harry.
'Very well--good night.'
Harson followed him down the stairs, and again endeavored to force a sum
of money upon him; but Kornicker was resolute in his refusal, nor could he
be induced to go home with Harson that evening. He said that he was not
hungry.
After several ineffectual efforts, the old man permitted him to depart,
with the internal resolution of keeping his eye on him, and of giving him
a helping hand in the world; a resolution which we may as well mention
that he carried out; so that in a few years Mr. Kornicker became a very
vivacious gentleman, of independent property, who frequented a small
ale-house in a retired corner of the city, where he snuffed prodigally,
and became a perfect oracle, and of much reputed knowledge, from the
sagacious manner in which he shook his head and winked on all subjects.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.
It was a clear, cloudless night without, and the stars twinkled and
glistened as if the sky were full of bright eyes, looking gladly down upon
the world, and taking a share in all its gayety and happiness. There was
no moon, or rather the moon was a reveller, and kept late hours, and might
be detected sneaking through the sky at about one or two in the morning,
when she should have been a-bed; and in consequence of her neglect of duty
the streets were dark, except where here and there the shop windows threw
out bright streams of light, revealing now a wrinkled brow, now a fat,
jolly face, and now a pair of bright sparkling eyes, glowing cheeks, and
lips like a rose-bud, as the throng of people flitted past them; for an
instant clear, distinct, with face, feature, and form plainly visible, and
then lost in the darkness. Some paused to look in the windows, some to
chat; and it might have been observed, that those who lingered longest in
the light, were young, and such whose faces could bear both the test of
light and scrutiny. But amid that crowd was a single man, who followed the
same course as the rest; skulking in the dark corners, darting rapidly
across the streams of light, with his head bent down and his hat slouched,
as if he desired to avoid notice. When he reached those places which were
comparatively less thronged, he paused and leaned against the iron
railings of the houses, and more than once turned and retraced his steps,
as if he had changed or mistaken his route. He was, as far as could be
judged from the sudden and uncertain glimpses afforded of his person, tall
and gaunt, with sunken eyes, long unshorn beard, and a face disfigured by
a deep gash. He had the appearance of one broken down by ill health or
suffering, and his panting breath, as he stopped, showed that he was
taxing his strength by the pace at which he went. Although he paused
often, and often turned back, yet in the end he resumed his journey, and
finally reached the upper part of the city. There he struck into a dark
cross-street. Once free from the crowd, and where few could observe him,
his smothered feelings broke out; and muttering to himself, grating his
teeth, blaspheming, now striking his clenched fists as if aiming a blow,
he darted on. He did not pause until he came to the house of no less a
person than Harry Harson. He crossed the door-yard hastily, as if he
feared his resolution might give way; opened the front door, for Harry had
no enemies, and his door was unbolted, and entered the outer room. The
door communicating with the inner room was open, so that he could see
within; and perhaps never was there a greater contrast than between the
occupants of those two rooms. In one was a man eaten up by fierce
passions, desperate and hardened, with all that is noble in the human soul
burnt out as with a hot iron; in the other sat an old man whose benevolent
features beamed with good will to all mankind. There was scarcely a
wrinkle in the broad full brow; the hair was sprinkled with gray; but what
of that? His eye was bright; his mouth teemed with good nature; and his
heart--God bless thee, old Harry Harson! what need to speak of thy heart?
The intruder had come in so noiselessly, although his motions were rapid
and bold, that Harson had not heard him, but sat reading a newspaper, and
was not a little startled in looking over it to see a man seated within a
few feet of him, and gazing at him with eyes as wild and bright as those
of a maniac.
'Who are you, in the name of heaven?' ejaculated he, too surprised even to
rise, and looking at the stranger as if he still doubted the reality of
his being in that spot.
The man laughed, savagely: 'Look at me, my master; look at me _well_;
you've seen me afore. Try and recollect it.'
Harson's embarrassment was not of long duration, and he examined the man
from head to foot. A vague recollection of having met him somewhere,
mingled with an indefinable feeling of suspicion and pain, crossed
Harson's mind as he studied the sunken features which were submitted
unshrinkingly to his scrutiny. He thought, and pondered, and wondered; and
still the man remained unmoved. He looked again; the man changed his
position, and the light fell upon him from another direction. Harson knew
him at once. He started up: 'Murderer, I know you!'
The man was on his feet at the same moment.
'Down to your seat, Sir!' said he, in a loud, savage tone. 'You're right;
but you cannot take me alive, nor will mortal man. In that room,' said he,
in a low tone, and pointing toward the dark stair-case which led to the
upper part of the house, 'I killed Tim Craig--the only man that ever loved
me. He's been after me ever since!' He leaned his face toward Harson, and
looking stealthily over his shoulder said in a whisper: 'He's waiting for
me at the door. He sat down on the stoop when I came in. I don't know why
I came here, but _he_ made me do it, and I must see where I killed him. It
wasn't me. It was Rust; it was Rust. Hark!' He cast a hasty glance in the
room behind him. 'I'm going, Tim, I'm going,' said he. 'Quick! quick! give
me the light!'
Seizing the candle, before Harson could prevent him, he rushed out of the
room, and sprang up the stairs two at a time. Harson followed; but before
he reached the door of the upper room, with a yell so loud and unearthly
that it made the old man's heart stand still, the murderer darted out; his
face livid; his hair bristling, his eyes starting with horror. With a
single bound he cleared the stairs; crossed the antechamber, the gate
swung heavily to, and he was gone! And this was the last that was ever
known of Bill Jones. A few months afterward, the body of a man was found
floating in one of the docks, and was supposed to be his; but it was so
mutilated and disfigured, that it was impossible to ascertain the fact
with any certainty, and it was deposited in the earth with none to claim
it or care for it, and with no mark to designate that the soil above it
shrouded a heart which had once throbbed with all the hopes and fears and
passions that were burning in the bosoms of those who were carelessly
loitering above its resting place.
CHAPTER THIRTY.
Ned Somers had followed Harson's advice in not making his visits to
Rhoneland's too frequent. But whatever may have passed between him and
Kate, and even if they did occasionally meet in the street and stop to
speak, and sometimes to hold conversations which were neither short nor
uninteresting to themselves, that is a matter between themselves with
which we have nothing to do. Certain it is, however, that as Ned cooled
off in his intimacy with Rhoneland, he appeared to rise in the old man's
estimation; and he grew more cordial when they _did_ meet. It may have
been that the suspicions implanted by Rust were gradually giving way
before the frank, honest nature of the young man; or it may have been that
gratitude for the assistance which Somers had lent, (and which Harson was
very particular to give its full weight) in disentangling him from the
toils of Rust; or it may have been the secret influence of Harson, who
ventured, whenever it could be done, to speak a good word for Ned; or it
may have been the drooping face of his child, which he was wont more than
ever to study anxiously, that gradually softened his feelings; but there
is no doubt that, to Kate's surprise, he one day told her to get him pen,
ink and paper, and to draw the table in front of him, as he was going to
write a letter. And it must be confessed, that Kate's color heightened,
and her heart beat fast when he had finished the letter, directed it to
Mr. Edward Somers, and then asked if she knew the address of Somers, which
of course she did; although she hesitated and stammered as if it were a
profound secret, and the answer the most difficult thing in the world.
But her surprise was scarcely greater than that of Ned himself, when a boy
came to him with a letter which ran thus:
'MY DEAR EDWARD: Come to me as soon as you can; I wish to see
you on a matter of much importance to both of us.
Yours truly,
JACOB RHONELAND.'
Ned felt something bouncing about in a very queer manner directly under
his ribs, as he read this note; but the sensation was not so painful as to
prevent his obeying it with a speed that was perfectly marvellous; for to
Rhoneland it seemed that the letter could scarcely have reached its
destination before Ned was back with it in his hand.
'You got my note,' said he gravely, as Somers entered, his face flushed
with the rapidity with which he had come.
'I have.'
'Don't go, Kate,' said he to his daughter, who with an inkling of what was
to follow, was stealing away. 'What I have to say relates to both of you.'
'Some time since,' said he, rising, and standing in front of Ned, 'I
wronged you, by making charges against you which I am now convinced were
false. My mind was poisoned by one who has gone to his long account, and
whose evil deeds may sleep with him. For this,' said he, extending his
hand, 'I ask your pardon; much more frankly and freely than I did on the
day when we met at Mr. Harson's.'
Ned took the proffered hand; at the same time pouring out a confusion of
words, the sum and substance of which was intended to be, that he had
taken no offence; that he knew Jacob was misled by others; that he was not
only perfectly willing, but very happy, to make up the matter, and say no
more about it; which no doubt was very true, for within six feet of him
stood Kate, with her soft eyes fixed on his face, and her little mouth
dimpled with smiles, as she observed how swimmingly matters were going on.
And could he be crusty and dogged? or could he cherish a grudge against
_her_ father? The thing was impossible. The extended hand was grasped, and
grasped warmly.
'Another thing I have to speak of,' said Rhoneland, relaxing somewhat at
the cordial tone of Ned's feelings. 'It is but a short time since I learnt
the full extent of my obligations to you, for the part you took in
unmasking the character of Rust, and in obtaining from him a disavowal of
charges against me, which, false as they were, were hard indeed to bear,
and were breaking me down. I have not finished,' said he, raising his hand
to prevent the interruption which Somers was endeavoring to make; 'let me
complete what I have to say, and you may speak as much as you like,
afterward. I will not thank you, for thanks are but words, and too often
mean nothing. Is there any thing that I can _do_, to lessen my
indebtedness to you?--or is there any way in which I can pay it off
altogether?'
He stopped, and looked earnestly in Ned's face. The red blood dashed up to
Somers' very forehead, and he could scarcely breathe for the thumping of
his heart, as the idea crossed him that now was the time to ask for Kate;
nor was his agitation at all diminished by casting a glance at her, and
seeing her cheeks crimson and her eyes downcast, as if she anticipated
what was going on in his mind. It must be confessed, however, that had
Rhoneland had no other clue to his wishes than that afforded by his words,
he would have been very much in the dark; for although Ned attempted to
speak out boldly, his lips trembled very much, and his voice was not as
obedient as he could wish; and all that was distinctly audible was the
girl's name.
'Why lad, what ails thee?' asked Rhoneland, unbending, as he observed the
embarrassment of his guest. 'You used to be as bold as a lion. Come here
Kate,' said he to his daughter; 'this young fellow has lost his voice; can
_you_ tell me what he wants?'
It was now Kate's turn to grow confused, and the color to deepen on her
cheek; nor did she utter a word.
'Young man,' continued Rhoneland, in a grave tone, 'I did not send for you
to trifle with your feelings. You love my daughter, and would ask for
_her_, and you fear to do so lest the request should be refused. She is
yours. Treat her kindly, and keep even a shadow of sorrow from falling
upon her brow. If you do not, an old man's curse will rest upon you; and
even though I be dead, and mouldering in my grave, where my voice cannot
reach you, that silent curse will follow you.' He turned abruptly away,
and left the room.
Ned Somers took Kate's hand in his; passed his arm about her waist, and
drew her to him in so singular a manner, that their lips could not but
meet; and not only once, but at least some half-a-dozen times.
'So you're mine at last, Kate!' said he, looking into her very eyes,
whenever they were raised enough for him to do so. 'Did I not tell you to
cheer up; and that all would be well? Did I not say so; and wasn't I
right? And now, Kate,' said he, in a less confident tone, 'your father,
though a most worthy old gentleman, is somewhat whimsical, and might
change his mind; so when shall _it_ be?'
Kate's reply was so very low, that it reached no ears except those of Ned;
but whatever it was, it is certain that on that day month they had been
married a week, and were deep in preparations for a merry-making to be
held on that very evening at Rhoneland's old house, which had been so
furbished up and renovated, under the auspices of the young couple, that
every thing in it seemed to shine again. A party at Jacob Rhoneland's! It
was a thing unheard of, and produced quite a sensation in the drowsy part
of the town where he lived. Never had a household been in such a fluster
as his was. What deep consultations were held to prevent the old man--who
seemed to have grown quite cheerful and light-hearted, and chirruped about
the house like some gay old old cricket--from meddling in every thing, and
to throw dust in his eyes, so as to make him suppose that he was having
every thing in his own way, when in fact he was having nothing. And then
what a time it took, and what entreaties, to prevail on him to let the
great wooden chest, studded with brass nails, which he never took his eye
from, be removed to an upper-chamber, to make room for their guests. But
Harry Harson, who was in the thick of all the doings, in and out a dozen
times in an hour; rubbing his hands and enjoying the bustle, giving
advice, suggesting this thing and that, and setting every thing wrong;
managed to get the great chest out of the way, for he dragged it up stairs
under Rhoneland's very nose, and in the teeth of his remonstrances; and
depositing it in a little out-of-the-way room, very difficult of access,
by reason of the angles and turns in the entry, and the size of the chest,
told Rhoneland that if he wanted it below he might take it there himself;
but that it was better where it was, and much more safe and out of the
way; in which opinion Rhoneland finally coincided.
Betimes Kate came down stairs to receive her guests, looking so
charmingly, and her eyes flashing with such malicious brightness, that on
meeting her in the entry Ned stopped to kiss her, and tell her that she
was looking 'gloriously;' a performance and observation by the way, which
he had already repeated half-a-dozen times in the course of the last hour.
By twos and threes the guests began to arrive, and went up stairs. There
was a great clatter above, where they were taking off their things. It
took a wonderful time to remove the hats and shawls; for although for a
long time up they went, none came down. There must have been thirty
assembled above stairs. At last Harry Harson, who was in the room with Ned
and Kate, dressed in his best black suit, and looking as young and merry
as any of them, vowed that he would not stand it, and sallied up stairs
and sent them down in a drove. How bright and cheerful they all were! how
the congratulations poured in upon Ned and Kate; and hopes for his future
happiness, and that he might have a large fortune, and a large family to
help him take care of it.
A loud scraping and jingling announced that the music was there, and put a
stop to such flummery as conversation. The young folks were going into the
business of the evening. The little stunted black fiddler with rings in
his ears, was mounted on one chair; the big, fat fiddler, who fiddled with
his eyes shut, was seated on another; and the goggle-eyed negro, with a
self-satisfied face, who simpered on every body, and flourished the
tambourine, was placed like an umbrella in the corner, to be out of the
way.
The fat fiddler called out for the gentlemen to choose their partners for
a quadrille. Then came the long premonitory screeching of the fiddle-bow
across the cat-gut; then the slight, tremulous jingle of the tambourine,
as if the goggle-eyed negro were dying to begin; then the bustling and
hustling, and squeezing of the couples, until they had obtained their
places in the dance. Then the scientific look of the fat fiddler, as he
opened his eyes and surveyed the whole, to see that all was right; then
the slight clearing of his throat, as he threw his head on one side,
bellowed out 'right and left,' and forthwith plunged into the matter,
might and main. Away he went, but fast and furious at his heels followed
the little stunted fiddler; and loud above the din of both, rose the
rattle of the tambourine. 'Right hand across! forward two; balancez;
ladies chain; forward four; dos-a-dos; chassez to the right; cross over;
all round;' here, there, every where, and all over--he was up to it all.
In vain the dancers fairly flew; the fat fiddler was equal to all
emergencies; he never lagged; he was sometimes too fast, but never--no,
not for a single instant--was he behind.
'Whew!' said he, as he gave the final flourish of his bow, and laying it
aside, wiped his forehead on his coat-sleeve, and called for a tumbler of
cold water. And thereupon the stunted fiddler and the tambourine made the
same request; the latter suggesting that his glass might be tempered with
a 'small spirt of gin,' without hurting his feelings.
In that dance, the lightest step and merriest voice was that of Harson,
who led out the bride, and footed it there with the best of them; and who
through the whole evening was bustling around the room, with a kind word
for every one, and as much at home as if the house, and the company, and
even the bride, belonged to him. And in fact, one or two of the
guests--but they were unsophisticated people from the country--were for
some time under the delusion that Harry was the bridegroom, instead of the
quiet young fellow who was seen walking about the rooms, talking to the
disagreeable old women, and getting partners for the ugly young ones,
without their knowing it; but all in such an unobtrusive manner that he
seemed quite a nobody when compared with Harson.
But there must be an end even to the merriest meetings; and when they had
kept it up until the night had got among the small hours, they began to
drop off. And here, amid the adieus of departing guests, we will take our
leave of the young couple; for it is far pleasanter to bid farewell to
those whose friendship we have cherished when hope is strong and bright,
than when care or disappointment has flung its shadow over their hearts.
CHAPTER THE LAST.