"I have a bitter thought--a snake
That used to string my life to pain;
I strove to cast it far away,
But every night and every day
It crawled back to my heart again."
"You are unusually early this morning," said a pale, handsome woman
crossing the threshold of the elegant dining-room, where the silver and
crystal and tempting viands stood in inviting array on the massive
table.
The lady wore a loose dark wrapper, girdled at the waist, and her thick
hair, prematurely grey, was drawn back from her large, intelligent brow,
and secured in graceful coils at the back of her shapely neck.
"I have a case of unusual interest, dear Mrs. Belford--that explains it;
at least I have stolen one from Dr. Belford, and with his ordinary
kindness, he does not insist on reclaiming it."
"Well, I don't object," Mrs. Belford replied gayly, "only I hope you can
manage to get through quickly, for I have an engagement for you early
this afternoon, and I would not relish a disappointment in the least."
The young doctor looked proudly at the handsome woman as she spoke, then
drawing himself up to his full height, as he surveyed himself in the
mirror, "You may rely on me," he said with his most courteous bow, as he
took his hat and left the room, with a last "good morning" to Mrs.
Belford.
* * * * *
"Deary me, but I'm glad you're well again," said good Mrs. Pratt, as she
leaned over the now restored patient. "I thought ye were a goner sure,
till comin' on mornin'. An' how do ye feel now, there's a good boy?"
The pained look on the sufferer's face passed into something of a smile,
as he answered in a low, weak voice,
"Much better, I thank you," then the old, troubled shade returned to his
flushed features, as he asked anxiously, "Will the doctor come soon
again? I want him particularly this time."
The pleading words were scarcely uttered when the rickety door creaked
once more on its hinges. The stairs were taken in a jump, and the doctor
stood at the door of his patient's room.
Mrs Pratt thrust out her anxious head, and whispered,
"He's alright, an' wants ye very bad this very minnit."
Laying his hat and cane on the "ottoman," (an old soap box costumed in
faded chinz), the doctor entered the room and approached the bed of the
sick man.
Taking advantage of the occasion, Mrs. Pratt now fairly "tired out,"
escorted herself to the adjoining room and laid her weary bones on the
uninviting "settee," that was the hallowed source of all the pleasant
dreams, that haunted her daily siestas for many a year.
The bright vivid glare of the mid-summer sun, was condensed into a
subdued light, as it stole through the little scorched shutters, that
adorned Mrs. Pratt's front windows. The doctor drew an old-fashioned
chair, close to the bed side and addressed his patient cheerily:
"Well, you are much better, this morning, I think?"
The restless head turned with a quick movement towards the speaker. The
bright feverishly lustrous eyes dwelt in dilated wonder on the face
before them, there was a nervous twitching about the dry lips. Then the
tired eyes closed languidly and the plaintive voice said:
"My mind is wandering; I am not a school-boy now."
The doctor knew there was a recognition, and taking the burning hand in
his, he said tenderly:
"Yes, Nicholas Bencroft, we will be school-boys again if you like. Those
were happy days; let us go over them together once more."
A strange, sad expression flitted across the invalid's face. He turned
completely round and peered into the face of his companion. Then
stretching out both feverish white hands, he cried out:
"Yes, thank God! Elersley, it's you; you have come just in time."
"Open the window and let me have a breath of fresh air," said the sick
man after their greetings were over. "I have something to tell you that
is weighing me down with grief, and promise me, dear old fellow, that
you will leave no stone unturned to do the right things, that I will
point out to you presently."
"If it is in human power, Bencroft, how can you doubt the eagerness of
one old chum to serve another?"
"But I have done an awful wrong and you may loathe me and desert me when
you see me self-condemned."
The despairing tones of the weak voice touched every sympathetic chord
in the heart of his listener.
"I don't care what you may have done," he cried, enthusiastically, "let
me help you all I can, you will not ask an impossibility I know."
The invalid heaved a labored sigh, and began his story.
"If I knew I had yet a year of health and life before me, I would not
trouble any one to undo the black and dishonorable knot, that these
guilty hands have tied, but I know too well that but little strength is
left me. To begin at the beginning, Guy," he said, looking eagerly into
the kind face of his listener, "boys make foolish attachments at school,
that they sometimes regret all their lives. This, as you know, was my
misfortune. Whatever diabolical attraction there was in that one man for
me, I never could tell. All you fellows ridiculed me for it, but some
evil fascination, though I did not so qualify it at that time, held me
to him in spite of myself. The rest of you, wiser than I, learned to
look upon his handsome face and polished manners as a clever mask, but I
was blinded and could not see like the rest. You know how many foolish
acts I did during those college years to serve him. Oh! if I had only
known then that I was laying the foundation of my future misery with my
own willing hands," and the speaker's large eyes flashed with a hatred
and defiance that made his plain face look grand and handsome.
"I left school a year before my father died, and I had just become
initiated in his business at the time of his demise. I admit it was
rather a heavy undertaking for one so young as I was then, to continue
the extensive business my father had so successfully carried on for
years.
"But I was encouraged by hopeful relatives and did not myself dread any
untoward consequences. Things went on quite smoothly, and I was making
money fast, when one day I was nearly stunned to death, on seeing my old
college chum walk in the office door. He looked handsomer than ever and
greeted me very cordially, with just a touch of the old condescension in
his manner. I was, of course, delighted to see him. We talked over old
days freely and familiarly. Finally I saw the drift of his visit. He
represented to me that he had invested largely, at the advice of some
friends, in the lands of the great North-West, but had lost a great deal
by the speculation. In his despair, the first friend he thought of was
myself. He got around me in his old way, and before he left my office
that morning I had loaned him, madman that I was, the sum of five
thousand dollars, without any question whatever of security. He swore to
me that I might rely on him to deal honestly with me, and, blinded by
the old infatuation, I gave him a cheque for the amount and sent him
away contented. Give me a drink, Guy, and fix up my pillows, please."
The young doctor did these things as gently as a woman, and without
interrupting the strain of confidence, sat down patiently again and
resumed his listening attitude.
"Months glided by," continued the invalid, "and no one was any the wiser
of the rash act I had committed, but now that I had leisure to repent,
it worried me greatly, and I could not shake off the depression it
caused. The time was approaching when a heavy payment would fall due and
I was in daily agony, waiting for the remittance of my loan, but,
needless to say, it never came. I wrote to the address he had left me,
but no answer was forthcoming.
"Within a few days of the date on which I had to meet this heavy
payment, the load of anxiety that pressed upon me was suddenly lightened
by the sudden re-appearance of my friend in my office. His smiles
succeeded in reassuring me once more, and in breathless suspense, I
drank in every word he uttered. He spoke of a great many unnecessary
things first, and then concluded by saying in the coolest manner
possible:
"'I fear you will be a little disappointed about your money, but I will
not be able to pay you for some time yet.'
"I stood petrified at his audacity. My first impulse was to seize him by
the throat and pay myself in blood, but when I looked at his handsome
face my determination vanished. He looked curiously at me in return, and
asked in a tone like one who is feeling his way:
"'Are you safe in your business?'
"'Good God!' I cried, exasperated, 'I was until I saw your face. You
will be my ruin.'
"He seemed to look sorry all at once, then brightening a little he said:
"'There is only one way in which I can help you, but you must lend a
hand yourself.'
"'What is it?' I cried, eagerly, hopefully.
"'I am going to be married,' he answered gravely, 'to a wealthy heiress,
and as soon as her money is in my possession, I will pay you back your
own.'
"There was nothing repulsive to me in this prospect. I was awake only to
the vital interests of the welfare of my mother and family, that
depended on my faithful discharge of the duties of my responsible
position.
"Seizing him eagerly by the arm, I asked him, 'When will she marry you?'
"'There's the rub,' he answered perplexedly. 'When do you want the
money?'
"'I must choose between my money and absolute ruin on Thursday,' I said,
'and this is Tuesday; I leave the rest to your honor and your heart.'
"'Well, the case is this,' he said, looking at me fixedly, 'she will not
marry me in her own town; we will therefore take a trip elsewhere, but
the difficulty is, I don't know yet where to go. If, however'--and he
leaned on the railing of my desk and looked at me with a searching
glance,--'if you want your money badly you can have it in this way:
There is a small vacant house, distant some miles from her residence,
and thither we could drive at any time. Why could'nt you, robed as a
curate, perform the marriage ceremony, and secure your money? We could
be properly married at any other time, though you are as good a one to
tie the knot as any other.'
"The villain looked at me steadily. He was turning his old power of
fascination to account. What was the whole blighted life of this
unfortunate heiress to the ruin and disgrace that my failure would bring
down on myself, my mother and sisters. I did not hesitate, with this
thought uppermost in my mind.
"'I will do this thing,' I said determinedly, 'whatever it costs me.'
"He directed me accordingly to leave Montreal, the seat of my business,
in the morning and reach the little village in the townships, where his
other victim lived, before noon. We would meet there, he would drive me
out to the parsonage, _pro tem_, and give it a look of habitation before
bringing his bride there. We purchased a few dilapidated pieces of
furniture from neighboring farmers and laid our little plot
successfully. It surprised me to think of him as capable of doing such a
villainous thing, and looking so calm and collected all the time. He
smoked inveterately, and occasionally sang or whistled some careless
tune, as though his heart felt not a feather-weight of care or sin. In
the evening I was installed in the vacant house, with no living creature
near but the great black dog I had brought with me from home, and who
had always followed me for years, everywhere I went. However, I stowed
even him into a dark recess, that was guarded by a little rickety door
that fastened with a rusty lock. It was a black awful night, nature gave
vent to her just indignation in every way I sat there, feeling already
guilty and remorseful, until near nine o'clock. Then hearing the roll of
a distant carriage, I tried to busy myself around, and look as
domesticated as possible under the circumstances. I thought I should
give up and lose all at the sight of the pretty, innocent, trustful
child for whom he had planned this hideous deception. But I was as
pitiable a victim myself as she, and the thought of my impending ruin
drove every feeling of humanity out of my heart. We began the mock
ceremony, slowly and solemnly. We had just reached the most critical
part when a great flash of lightning leaped in at the broken window,
stunning both of us and prostrating the girl. The candle went black out,
leaving us in total darkness. When I recovered from the shock, the noise
and elemental din were such that I could distinguish nothing. I waited a
moment or two and then spoke. I received no answer. Half maddened, I got
up and struck a fresh light, and looked around me. The traitor, the
doubly-dyed villain had gone, he had taken the horse, and there was not
a trace of him left. He had secured the unfortunate girl's money through
the instrumentality of one who had violated every principle of honor and
justice, to save the name and social standing of those who were
dependent on him. I suppose I did not deserve to die then. I was given
days and nights of endless duration in which to live over and over
again, the agony and despair of that bitter experience. What was I to
do? I had not secured my money, but I had this additional misfortune on
my conscience: I had wrecked the life of a fair young girl, and had the
hitherto spotless page of my dealings with my fellow-creatures, stamped
with a foul indelible stain, that cried shame and retribution on my
whole generation. I fled--of course--when the hasty realization of my
misdeeds forced itself into my mind. I was frantic and desperate as I
tried to make my way through the thicket, and at last on arriving at the
village, I took the midnight train and travelled to a town in the State
of Maine. From this place I wrote to my creditors, confessing my
financial difficulties, and begging of them not to seek me out, nor take
any further interest in me, as I had resolved to begin my blighted life
over again, in a strange land among strange people. I tried O, Elersley!
God knows how hard, to earn honest bread, but I did not deserve success,
and so God refused to bless my labor. I left Maine, and came here to New
York, two years ago. I turned my hand to everything, but the bitter
sting of misfortune was at the bottom of all. I tried my pen, recently,
for my limbs seemed incompetent for any active service, but sitting here
in this little narrow room, through the long night, trying to invent
some gay little snatch of fiction out of the store of a mind so crushed
and oppressed, was too bitter a mockery to last very long. My fair
fashionable heroines looked at me in my dreams with eyes blood-shot and
revengeful, saying, 'This is what you have brought me to.' For I
suppose, Elersley, that girl never did a day's good since. Her fate has
been constantly preying on my mind. I have spent a life of wretched
expiation already in this world, God only knows what awaits me in the
next. I have studiously avoided the sex I have outraged by this deed,
feeling myself an outcast and a traitor in their presence. I have turned
my back on the few haunts of pleasure that were open to me, for the
sound of my own voice in gaiety, frightened and reproached me. As for
_him_ Elersley, though I have not seen him, nor heard of him, since, yet
I know he is revelling in the luxury of his ill-gotten wealth."
The sick man stopped a moment, and let the tired lids droop languidly
over the dark eyes, then opening them again, he looked full into Guy's
pale face. When he resumed his voice was nervous and weak.
"You have now the truthful story of my woe," he said, brokenly, "are you
still willing to help me?"
The question brought Elersley back from his wanderings.
"Do you tell me truthfully that this is the villany of the boy we
pampered so at school?"
"That is the story of Vivian Standish's cowardly conduct," said
Bencroft, in a tone of deep resentment.
"Good Heavens!" muttered Guy, "who can tell what more he has been able
to do? Give me your hand Bencroft. As you have been the dupe of a
blackguard who disguised his villany under the mask of friendship, I
will stand to you. Will you allow me to write down this confession over
your own signature, lest a nuncupative testimony be not sufficient to
condemn him. We will call in Mrs. Pratt to witness the signing of the
paper." Guy's suggestion was immediately followed out. The invalid
grasped the pen with wonderful strength, and signed his name in a firm
legible hand to the document. Mrs. Pratt, looking as dignified as the
occasion required, affixed her mark, and so did the widow Brady, who
just happened to "drop in." Guy rose and looked at his watch. It was
past eleven now, and he had still other duties to attend to before
keeping his word with Mrs. Belford.
"Are you going," the invalid asked impatiently, making an effort to rise
in his narrow bed. "Look here Elersley," he cried, "I want to thank you,
to praise you, if I could, but my poor voice is shattered and weak. If I
could only crawl on my knees before you in gratitude, how gladly I would
do it, but I will never leave this poor little home of mine alive; my
heart is broken and my spirit is worn out. Only tell me you will search
the world for the pretty French girl he called 'Fifine,' and tell her
the story of my life, my grief and remorse. Punish her deceiver as he
deserves and come to my lonely grave at the last and whisper to me that
retribution has come. Until then I cannot rest. Oh Guy! there is no
misery like the misery of a life whose dark shadows haunt it's victim
perpetually. Look at her!--there she is now--oh! so angry and sullen;
ugh!--she is cursing me--threatening me--tell her, for God's sake, Guy,
tell her to spare the sick, wasted man--see--she is coming nearer to
me--save me--save me--" and in wild shrieks and tossings, Nicholas
Bencroft plunged back again into the mad delirium of the fever.