WHAT TAKES PLACE BETWEEN GEORGE MULLHOLLAND AND MR. SNIVEL.
The man who kissed and bore away the prostrate girl was George
Mullholland.
"Oh! George--George!" she whispers imploringly, as her eyes meet his;
and turning upon the couch of her chamber, where he hath lain her,
awakes to consciousness, and finds him watching over her with a lover's
solicitude. "I was not cold because I loved you less--oh no! It was to
propitiate my ambition--to be free of the bondage of this house--to
purge myself of the past--to better my future!" And she lays her pale,
nervous hand gently on his arm--then grasps his hand and presses it
fervently to her lips.
Though placed beyond the pale of society--though envied by one extreme
and shunned by the other--she finds George her only true friend. He
parts and smooths gently over her polished shoulders her dishevelled
hair; he watches over her with the tenderness of a brother; he quenches
and wipes away the blood oozing from her wounded breast; he kisses and
kisses her flushed cheek, and bathes her Ion-like brow. He forgives all.
His heart would speak if his tongue had words to represent it. He would
the past were buried--the thought of having wronged him forgotten. She
recognizes in his solicitude for her the sincerity of his heart. It
touches like sweet music the tenderest chords of her own; and like
gushing fountains her great black eyes fill with tears. She buries her
face in her hands, crying, "Never, never, George, (I swear it before the
God I have wronged, but whose forgiveness I still pray,) will I again
forget my obligation to you! I care not how high in station he who seeks
me maybe. Ambitious!--I was misled. His money lured me away, but he
betrayed me in the face of his promises. Henceforth I have nothing for
this deceptive world; I receive of it nothing but betrayal--"
"The world wants nothing more of either of us," interrupts George.
More wounded in her feelings than in her flesh, she sobs and wrings her
hands like one in despair.
"You have ambition. I am too poor to serve your ambition!"
That word, too "poor," is more than her already distracted brain can
bear up under. It brings back the terrible picture of their past
history; it goads and agonizes her very soul. She throws her arms
frantically about his neck; presses him to her bosom; kisses him with
the fervor of a child. Having pledged his forgiveness with a kiss, and
sealed it by calling in a witness too often profaned on such occasions,
George calms her feelings as best he can; then he smooths with a gentle
hand the folds of her uplifted dress, and with them curtains the satin
slippers that so delicately encase her small feet. This done, he spreads
over her the richly-lined India morning-gown presented to her a few days
ago by the Judge, who, as she says, so wantonly betrayed her, and on
whom she sought revenge. Like a Delian maid, surrounded with Oriental
luxury, and reclining on satin and velvet, she flings her flowing hair
over her shoulders, nestles her weary head in the embroidered cushion,
and with the hand of her only true friend firmly grasped in her own,
soothes away into a calm sleep--that sovereign but too transient balm
for sorrowing hearts.
Our scene changes. The ghost hath taken himself to the graveyard; the
morning dawns soft and sunny on what we harmlessly style the sunny city
of the sunny South. Madame Flamingo hath resolved to nail another
horse-shoe over her door. She will propitiate (so she hath it) the god
of ghosts.
George Mullholland, having neither visible means of gaining a livelihood
nor a settled home, may be seen in a solitary box at Baker's, (a
coffee-house at the corner of Meeting and Market streets,) eating an
humble breakfast. About him there is a forlornness that the quick eye
never fails to discover in the manners of the homeless man. "Cleverly
done," he says, laying down the _Mercury_ newspaper, in which it is set
forth that "the St. Cecilia, in consequence of an affliction in the
family of one of its principal members, postponed its assembly last
night. The theatre, in consequence of a misunderstanding between the
manager and his people, was also closed. The lecture on comparative
anatomy, by Professor Bones, which was to have been delivered at
Hibernian Hall, is, in consequence of the indisposition of the learned
Professor, put off to Tuesday evening next, when he will have, as he
deserves, an overflowing house. Tickets, as before, may be had at all
the music and bookstores." The said facetious journal was silent on the
superior attractions at the house of the old hostess; nor did it deem it
prudent to let drop a word on the misunderstanding between the patrons
of the drama and the said theatrical manager, inasmuch as it was one of
those that are sure to give rise to a very serious misunderstanding
between that functionary and his poor people.
In another column the short but potent line met his eye: "An overflowing
and exceedingly fashionable house greeted the Negro Minstrels last
night. First-rate talent never goes begging in our city." George sips
his coffee and smiles. Wonderfully clever these editors are, he thinks.
They have nice apologies for public taste always on hand; set the
country by the ears now and then; and amuse themselves with carrying on
the most prudent description of wars.
His own isolated condition, however, is uppermost in his mind. Poverty
and wretchedness stare him in the face on one side; chivalry, on the
other, has no bows for him while daylight lasts. Instinct whispers in
his ear--where one exists the other is sure to be.
To the end that this young man will perform a somewhat important part in
the by-ways of this history, some further description of him may be
necessary. George Mullholland stands some five feet nine, is
wiry-limbed, and slender and erect of person. Of light complexion, his
features, are sharp and irregular, his face narrow and freckled, his
forehead small and retreating, his hair sandy and short-cropped. Add to
these two small, dull, gray eyes, and you have features not easily
described. Nevertheless, there are moments when his countenance wears an
expression of mildness--one in which the quick eye may read a character
more inoffensive than intrusive. A swallow-tail blue coat, of ample
skirts, and brass buttons; a bright-colored waistcoat, opening an
avalanche of shirt-bosom, blossoming with cheap jewelry; a broad,
rolling shirt-collar, tied carelessly with a blue ribbon; a
steeple-crowned hat, set on the side of his head with a challenging air;
and a pair of broadly-striped and puckered trowsers, reaching well over
a small-toed and highly-glazed boot, constitutes his dress. For the
exact set of those two last-named articles of his wardrobe he maintains
a scrupulous regard. We are compelled to acknowledge George an
importation from New York, where he would be the more readily recognized
by that vulgar epithet, too frequently used by the self-styled
refined--"a swell."
Life with George is a mere drift of uncertainty. As for aims and ends,
why he sees the safer thing in having nothing to do with them. Mr. Tom
Toddleworth once advised this course, and Tom was esteemed good
authority in such matters. Like many others, his character is made up of
those yielding qualities which the teachings of good men may elevate to
usefulness, or bad men corrupt by their examples. There is a stage in
the early youth of such persons when we find their minds singularly
susceptible, and ready to give rapid growth to all the vices of depraved
men; while they are equally apt in receiving good, if good men but take
the trouble to care for them, and inculcate lessons of morality.
Not having a recognized home, we may add, in resuming our story, that
George makes Baker's his accustomed haunt during the day, as do also
numerous others of his class--a class recognized and made use of by men
in the higher walks of life only at night.
"Ah! ha, ha! into a tight place this time, George," laughs out Mr.
Soloman, the accommodation man, as he hastens into the room, seats
himself in the box with George, and seizes his hand with the
earnestness of a true friend. Mr. Soloman can deport himself on all
occasions with becoming good nature. "It's got out, you see."
"What has got out?" interrupts George, maintaining a careless
indifference.
"Come now! none of that, old fellow."
"If I understood you--"
"That affair last night," pursues Mr. Soloman, his delicate fingers
wandering into his more delicately-combed beard. "It'll go hard with
you. He's a stubborn old cove, that Sleepyhorn; administers the law as
Cæsar was wont to. Yesterday he sent seven to the whipping-post; to-day
he hangs two 'niggers' and a white man. There is a consolation in
getting rid of the white. I say this because no one loses a dollar by
it."
George, continuing to masticate his bread, says it has nothing to do
with him. He may hang the town.
"If I can do you a bit of a good turn, why here's your man. But you must
not talk that way--you must not, George, I assure you!" Mr. Soloman
assumes great seriousness of countenance, and again, in a friendly way,
takes George by the hand. "That poignard, George, was yours. It was
picked up by myself when it fell from your hand--"
"My hand! my hand!" George quietly interposes, his countenance paling,
and his eyes wandering in excitement.
"Now don't attempt to disguise the matter, you know! Come out on the
square--own up! Jealousy plays the devil with one now and then. I
know--I have had a touch of it; had many a little love affair in my
time--"
George again interrupts by inquiring to what he is coming.
"To the attempt (the accommodation man assumes an air of sternness) you
made last night on the life of that unhappy girl. It is needless," he
adds, "to plead ignorance. The Judge has the poignard; and what's more,
there are four witnesses ready to testify. It'll go hard with you, my
boy." He shakes his head warningly.
"I swear before God and man I am as innocent as ignorant of the charge.
The poignard I confess is mine; but I had no part in the act of last
night, save to carry the prostrate girl--the girl I dearly love--away.
This I can prove by her own lips."
Mr. Soloman, with an air of legal profundity, says: "This is all very
well in its way, George, but it won't stand in law. The law is what you
have got to get at. And when you have got at it, you must get round it;
and then you must twist it and work it every which way--only be careful
not to turn its points against yourself; that, you know, is the way we
lawyers do the thing. You'll think we're a sharp lot; and we have to be
sharp, as times are."
"It is not surprising," replies George, as if waking from a fit of
abstraction, "that she should have sought revenge of one who so basely
betrayed her at the St. Cecilia--"
"There, there!" Mr. Soloman interrupts, changing entirely the expression
of his countenance, "the whole thing is out! I said there was an
unexplained mystery somewhere. It was not the Judge, but me who betrayed
her to the assembly. Bless you, (he smiles, and crooking his finger,
beckons a servant, whom he orders to bring a julep,) I was bound to do
it, being the guardian of the Society's dignity, which office I have
held for years. But you don't mean to have it that the girl
attempted--(he suddenly corrects himself)--Ah, that won't do, George.
Present my compliments to Anna--I wouldn't for the world do aught to
hurt her feelings, you know that--and say I am ready to get on my knees
to her to confess myself a penitent for having injured her feelings.
Yes, I am ready to do anything that will procure her forgiveness. I
plead guilty. But she must in return forgive the Judge. He is hard in
law matters--that is, we of the law consider him so--now and then; but
laying that aside, he is one of the best old fellows in the world, loves
Anna to distraction; nor has he the worst opinion in the world of you,
George. Fact is, I have several times heard him refer to you in terms of
praise. As I said before, being the man to do you a bit of a good turn,
take my advice as a friend. The Judge has got you in his grasp,
according to every established principle of law; and having four good
and competent witnesses, (You have no voice in law, and Anna's won't
stand before a jury,) will send you up for a twelve-months' residence in
Mount Rascal."
It will be almost needless here to add, that Mr. Soloman had, in an
interview with the Judge, arranged, in consideration of a goodly fee, to
assume the responsibility of the betrayal at the St. Cecilia; and also
to bring about a reconciliation between him and the girl he so
passionately sought.
Keep out of the way a few days, and everything will blow over and come
right. I will procure you the Judge's friendship--yes, his money, if you
want. More than that, I will acknowledge my guilt to Anna; and being as
generous of heart as she is beautiful, she will, having discovered the
mistake, forgive me and make amends to the Judge for her foolish act.
It is almost superfluous to add, that the apparent sincerity with which
the accommodation man pleaded, had its effect on the weak-minded man. He
loved dearly the girl, but poverty hung like a leaden cloud over him.
Poverty stripped him of the means of gratifying her ambition; poverty
held him fast locked in its blighting chains; poverty forbid his
rescuing her from the condition necessity had imposed upon her; poverty
was goading him into crime; and through crime only did he see the means
of securing to himself the cherished object of his love.
"I am not dead to your friendship, but I am too sad at heart to make any
pledge that involves Anna, at this moment. We met in wretchedness, came
up in neglect and crime, sealed our love with the hard seal of
suffering. Oh! what a history of misery my heart could unfold, if it had
but a tongue!" George replies, in subdued accents, as a tear courses
down his cheek.
Extending his hand, with an air of encouragement, Mr. Soloman says
nothing in the world would so much interest him as a history of the
relations existing between George and Anna. Their tastes, aims, and very
natures, are different. To him their connection is clothed in mystery.