IN WHICH THERE IS A SINGULAR REVELATION.
Madame Montford returns, unsuccessful, to her parlor. It is conscience
that unlocks the guilty heart, that forces mortals to seek relief where
there is no chance of finding it. It was this irresistible emotion that
found her counciling Tom Swiggs, making of him a confidant in her
search for the woman she felt could remove the doubt, in respect to
Anna’s identity, that hung so painfully in her mind. And yet, such was
her position, hesitating as it were between her ambition to move in
fashionable society, and her anxiety to atone for a past error, that
she dare not disclose the secret of all her troubles even to him. She
sought him, not that he could soften her anxiety, but that being an
humble person, she could pursue her object through him, unobserved to
society-in a word, that he would be a protection against the
apprehensions of scandal-mongers. Such are the shifts to which the
ambitious guilty have recourse. What she has beheld in the poorhouse,
too, only serves to quicken her thoughts of the misery she may have
inflicted upon others, and to stimulate her resolution to persevere in
her search for the woman. Conscious that wealth and luxury does not
always bring happiness, and that without a spotless character, woman is
but a feeble creature in this world, she would now sacrifice everything
else for that one ennobling charm.
It may be proper here to add, that although Tom Swiggs could not enter
into the repentant woman’s designs, having arranged with his employer
to sail for London in a few days, she learned of him something that
reflected a little more light in her path. And that was, that the woman
Anna Bonard, repined of her act in leaving George Mullholland, to whom
she was anxious to return-that she was now held against her will; that
she detested Judge Sleepyhorn, although he had provided lavishly for
her comfort. Anna knew George loved her, and that love, even to an
abandoned woman (if she could know it sincere), was dearer to her than
all else. She learned, too, that high up on Anna’s right arm, there was
imprinted in blue and red ink, two hearts and a broken anchor. And this
tended further to increase her anxiety. And while evolving all these
things in her mind, and contemplating the next best course to pursue,
her parlor is invaded by Mr. Snivel. He is no longer Mr. Soloman, nor
Mr. Snivel. He is the Hon. Mr. Snivel. It is curious to contemplate the
character of the men to whose name we attach this mark of distinction.
“I know you will pardon my seeming neglect, Madame,” he says, grasping
her hand warmly, as a smile of exultation lights up his countenance.
“The fact is, we public men are so absorbed in the affairs of the
nation, that we have scarce a thought to give to affairs of a private
nature. We have elected our ticket. I was determined it should be so,
if Jericho fell. And, more than all, I am made an honorable, by the
popular sentiment of the people—”
“To be popular with the people, is truly an honor,” interrupts the
lady, facetiously.
“Thank you-O, thank you, for the compliment,” pursues our hero. “Now,
as to this unfortunate person you seek, knowing it was of little use to
search for her in our institutions of charity-one never can find out
anything about the wretches who get into them-I put the matter into the
hands of one of our day-police-a plaguey sharp fellow-and he set about
scenting her out. I gave him a large sum, and promised him more if
successful. Here, then, after a long and tedious search-I have no doubt
the fellow earned his money-is what he got from New York, this
morning.” The Hon. Mr. Snivel, fixing his eye steadily upon her, hands
her a letter which reads thus:
“NEW YORK, Dec. 14th, 18-.
“Last night, while making search after a habitant of the Points, a odd
old chip what has wandered about here for some years, some think he has
bin a better sort of man once, I struck across the woman you want. She
is somewhere tucked away in a Cow Bay garret, and is awful crazy; I’ll
keep me eye out till somethin’ further. If her friends wants to give
her a lift out of this place, they’d better come and see me at once.
“Yours, as ever,
“M. FITZGERALD.”
Mr. Snivel ogles Madame Montford over the page of a book he affects to
read. “Guilt! deep and strong,” he says within himself, as Madame, with
flushed countenance and trembling hand, ponders and ponders over the
paper. Then her emotions quicken, her eyes exchange glances with Mr.
Snivel, and she whispers, with a sigh, “found-at last! And yet how
foolish of me to give way to my feelings? The affair, at best, is none
of mine.” Mr. Snivel bows, and curls his Saxon mustache. “To do good
for others is the natural quality of a generous nature.”
Madame, somewhat relieved by this condescension of the Hon. gentleman,
says, in reply, “I am curious at solving family affairs.”
“And I!” says our hero, with refreshing coolness—“always ready to do a
bit of a good turn.”
Madame pauses, as if in doubt whether to proceed or qualify what she
has already said. “A relative, whose happiness I make my own,” she
resumes, and again pauses, while the words tremble upon her lips. She
hears the words knelling in her ears: “A guilty conscience needs no
betrayer.”
“You have,” pursues our hero, “a certain clue; and of that I may
congratulate you.”
Madame says she will prepare at once to return to her home in New York,
and-and here again the words hang upon her lips. She was going to say,
her future proceedings would be governed by the paper she holds so
nervously in her fingers.
Snivel here receives a nostrum from the lady’s purse. “Truly,!—Madame,”
he says, in taking leave of her, “the St. Cecilia will regret you-we
shall all regret you; you honored and graced our assemblies so. Our
first families will part with you reluctantly. It may, however, be some
satisfaction to know how many kind things will be said of you in your
absence.” Mr. Snivel makes his last bow, a sarcastic smile playing over
his face, and passes into the street.
On the following day she encloses a present of fifty dollars to Tom
Swiggs, enjoins the necessity of his keeping her visit to the
poor-house a secret, and takes leave of Charleston.
And here our scene changes, and we must transport the reader to New
York. It is the day following the night Mr. Detective Fitzgerald
discovered what remained of poor Toddleworth, in the garret of the
House of the Nine Nations. The City Hall clock strikes twelve. The
goodly are gathered into the House of the Foreign Missions, in which
peace and respectability would seem to preside. The good-natured fat
man is in his seat, pondering over letters lately received from the
“dark regions” of Arabia; the somewhat lean, but very
respectable-looking Secretary, is got nicely into his spectacles, and
sits pondering over lusty folios of reports from Hindostan, and various
other fields of missionary labor, all setting forth the various large
amounts of money expended, how much more could be expended, and what a
blessing it is to be enabled to announce the fact that there is now a
hope of something being done. The same anxious-faced bevy of females we
described in a previous chapter, are here, seated at a table, deeply
interested in certain periodicals and papers; while here and there
about the room, are several contemplative gentlemen in black. Brother
Spyke, having deeply interested Brothers Phills and Prim with an
account of his visit to the Bottomless Pit, paces up and down the room,
thinking of Antioch, and the evangelization of the heathen world.
“Truly, brother,” speaks the good-natured fat man, “his coming seemeth
long.” “Eleven was the hour; but why he tarryeth I know not,” returns
Brother Spyke, with calm demeanor. “There is something more alarming in
Sister Slocum’s absence,” interposes one of the ladies. The house seems
in a waiting mood, when suddenly Mr. Detective Fitzgerald enters, and
changes it to one of anxiety. Several voices inquire if he was
successful. He shakes his head, and having recounted his adventures,
the discovery of where the money went to, and the utter hopelessness of
an effort to recover it; “as for the man, Toddleworth,” he says,
methodically, “he was found with a broken skull. The Coroner has had an
inquest over him; but murders are so common. The verdict was, that he
died of a broken skull, by the hands of some one to the jury unknown.
Suspicions were strong against one Tom Downey, who is very like a
heathen, and is mistrusted of several murders. The affair disturbed the
neighborhood a little, and the Coroner tried to get something out
concerning the man’s history; but it all went to the wind, for the
people were all so ignorant. They all knew everything about him, which
turned out to be just nothing, which they were ready to swear to. One
believed Father Flaherty made the Bible, another believed the Devil
still chained in Columbia College-a third believed the stars were
lanterns to guide priests-the only angels they know-on their way to
heaven.”
“Truly!” exclaims the man of the spectacles, in a moment of
abstraction.
Brother Spyke says: “the Lord be merciful.”
“On the body of the poor man we found this document. It was rolled
carefully up in a rag, and is supposed to throw some light on his
history.” Mr. Fitzgerald draws leisurely from his pocket a distained
and much-crumpled paper, written over in a bold, business-like hand,
and passes it to the man in the spectacles, as a dozen or more anxious
faces gather round, eager to explore the contents.
“He went out of the Points as mysteriously as he came in. We buried him
a bit ago, and have got Downey in the Tombs: he’ll be hanged, no
doubt,” concludes the detective, laying aside his cap, and setting
himself, uninvited, into a chair. The man in the spectacles commences
reading the paper, which runs as follows:
“I have been to you an unknown, and had died such an unknown, but that
my conscience tells me I have a duty to perform. I have wronged no one,
owe no one a penny, harbor no malice against any one; I am a victim of
a broken heart, and my own melancholy. Many years ago I pursued an
honorable business in this city, and was respected and esteemed. Many
knew me, and fortune seemed to shed upon me her smiles. I married a
lady of wealth and affluence, one I loved and doted on. Our affections
seemed formed for our bond; we lived for one another; our happiness
seemed complete. But alas! an evil hour came. Ambitious of admiration,
she gradually became a slave to fashionable society, and then gave
herself up to those flatterers who hang about it, and whose chief
occupation it is to make weak-minded women vain of their own charms.
Coldness, and indifference to home, soon followed. My house was
invaded, my home-that home I regarded so sacredly-became the resort of
men in whose society I found no pleasure, with whom I had no feeling in
common. I could not remonstrate, for that would have betrayed in me a
want of confidence in the fidelity of one I loved too blindly. I was
not one of those who make life miserable in seeing a little and
suspecting much. No! I forgave many things that wounded my feelings;
and my love for her would not permit a thought to invade the sanctity
of her fidelity. Business called me into a foreign country, where I
remained several months, then returned-not, alas! to a home made happy
by the purity of one I esteemed an angel;—not to the arms of a pure,
fond wife, but to find my confidence betrayed, my home invaded-she, in
whom I had treasured up my love, polluted; and slander, like a desert
wind, pouring its desolating breath into my very heart. In my blindness
I would have forgiven her, taken her back to my distracted bosom, and
fled with her to some distant land, there still to have lived and loved
her. But she sought rather to conceal her guilt than ask forgiveness.
My reason fled me, my passion rose above my judgment, I sank under the
burden of my sorrow, attempted to put an end to her life, and to my own
misery. Failing in this, for my hand was stayed by a voice I heard
calling to me, I fled the country and sought relief for my feelings in
the wilds of Chili. I left nearly all to my wife, took but little with
me, for my object was to bury myself from the world that had known me,
and respected me. Destitution followed me; whither I went there seemed
no rest, no peace of mind for me. The past floated uppermost in my
mind. I was ever recurring to home, to those with whom I had
associated, to an hundred things that had endeared me to my own
country. Years passed-years of suffering and sorrow, and I found myself
a lone wanderer, without friend or money. During this time it was
reported at home, as well as chronicled in the newspapers, that I was
dead. The inventor of this report had ends, I will not name them here,
to serve. I was indeed dead to all who had known me happy in this
world. Disguised, a mere shadow of what I was once, I wandered back to
New York, heart-sick and discouraged, and buried myself among those
whose destitution, worse, perhaps, than my own, afforded me a means of
consolation. My life has long been a burden to me; I have many times
prayed God, in his mercy, to take me away, to close the account of my
misery. Do you ask my name? Ah! that is what pains me most. To live
unknown, a wretched outcast, in a city where I once enjoyed a name that
was respected, is what has haunted my thoughts, and tortured my
feelings. But I cannot withhold it, even though it has gone down,
tainted and dishonored. It is Henry Montford. And with this short
record I close my history, leaving the rest for those to search out who
find this paper, at my death, which cannot be long hence. “HENRY
MONTFORD. “New York, Nov. -, 184-.”
A few sighs follow the reading of the paper, but no very deep interest,
no very tender emotion, is awakened in the hearts of the goodly.
Nevertheless, it throws a flood of light upon the morals of a class of
society vulgarly termed fashionable. The meek females hold their tears
and shake their heads. Brother Spyke elongates his lean figure, draws
near, and says the whole thing is very unsatisfactory. Not one word is
let drop about the lost money.
Brother Phills will say this-that the romance is very cleverly got up,
as the theatre people say.
The good-natured fat man, breathing somewhat freer, says: “Truly! these
people have a pleasant way of passing out of the world. They die of
their artful practices-seeking to devour the good and the generous.”
“There’s more suffers than imposes-an’ there’s more than’s written
meant in that same bit of paper. Toddleworth was as inoffensive a
creature as you’d meet in a day. May God forgive him all his faults;”
interposes Mr. Detective Fitzgerald, gathering up his cap and passing
slowly out of the room.
And this colloquy is put an end to by the sudden appearance of Sister
Slocum. A rustling silk dress, of quiet color, and set off with three
modest flounces; an India shawl, loosely thrown over her shoulders; a
dainty little collar, of honiton, drawn neatly about her neck, and a
bonnet of buff-colored silk, tastefully set off with tart-pie work
without, and lined with virtuous white satin within, so saucily poised
on her head, suggests the idea that she has an eye to fashion as well
as the heathen world. Her face, too, always so broad, bright, and
benevolent in its changes-is chastely framed in a crape border, so
nicely crimped, so nicely tucked under her benevolent chin at one end,
and so nicely pinned under the virtuous white lining at the other.
Goodness itself radiates from those large, earnest blue eyes, those
soft, white cheeks, that large forehead, with those dashes of silvery
hair crossing it so smoothly and so exactly-that well-developed, but
rather broad nose, and that mouth so expressive of gentleness.
Sister Slocum, it requires no very acute observer to discover, has got
something more than the heathen world at heart, for all those soft,
congenial features are shadowed with sadness. Silently she takes her
seat, sits abstracted for a few minutes-the house is thrown into a
wondering mood-then looks wisely through her spectacles, and having
folded her hands with an air of great resignation, shakes, and shakes,
and shakes her head. Her eyes sud- denly fill with tears, her thoughts
wander, or seem to wander, she attempts to speak, her voice choaks, and
the words hang upon her lips. All is consternation and excitement.
Anxious faces gather round, and whispering voices inquire the cause.
The lean man in the spectacles having applied his hartshorn bottle,
Sister Slocum, to the great joy of all present, is so far restored as
to be able to announce the singular, but no less melancholy fact, that
our dear guest, Sister Swiggs, has passed from this world to a better.
She retired full of sorrow, but came not in the morning. And this so
troubled Sister Scudder that there was no peace until she entered her
room. But she found the angel had been there before her, smoothed the
pillow of the stranger, and left her to sleep in death. On earth her
work was well done, and in the arms of the angel, her pure spirit now
beareth witness in heaven. Sister Slocum’s emotions forbid her saying
more. She concludes, and buries her face in her cambric. Then an
outpouring of consoling words follow. “He cometh like a thief in the
night: His works are full of mystery; truly, He chasteneth; He giveth
and taketh away.” Such are a few of the sentiments lisped,
regrettingly, for the departed.
How vain are the hopes with which we build castles in the air; how
strange the motives that impel us to ill-advised acts. We leave
untouched the things that call loudest for our energies, and treasure
up our little that we may serve that which least concerns us. In this
instance it is seen how that which came of evil went in evil; how
disapointment stepped in and blew the castle down at a breath.
There could not be a doubt that the disease of which Sister Smiggs
died, and which it is feared the State to which she belongs will one
day die, was little dignity. Leaving her then in the arms of the House
of the Foreign Mission, and her burial to the Secretary of the very
excellent “Tract Society” she struggled so faithfully to serve, we
close this chapter of events, the reader having, no doubt, discovered
the husband of Madame Montford in the wretched man, Mr. Toddleworth.