Elle n'est point parjure, elle n'est point legere;
Son devoir m'a trahi, mon malheur, et son pere.--_Polyeucte_.
Morton's evening with Mrs. Ashland, and the story which she told him,
removed at least one pain from his breast. He learned that Edith
Leslie was not in fault; and that, great as his misfortune might be,
his idol was not turned to clay.
His friend's narrative, however, was very defective. She could give
results merely, not knowing, or suspecting, the hidden springs which
produced them; and Morton was left to form his own conclusions. The
following is a more explicit statement.
Morton embarked for Europe, and the return steamer brought, in due
course, a letter to Edith Leslie. With the next steamer came another;
with the next, a third; all as absurd epistles as the most exacting
mistress could desire. The succeeding mail was silent. She wondered
and hoped; but when the next arrived, and brought no tidings, her
heart began to fail. The winter wore away, and still no letter came.
She was living, at that time, with her father, at his country seat.
Leslie's health was declining, and when Vinal returned from his short
European tour, he consigned to his hands the care of his affairs, and
spent the greater part of his time at Matherton; for he had a strong
love for the home of his boyhood.
Spring returned, and blossomed into summer; but nothing was heard of
Morton. The season ripened; the fringed gentian sprang in the meadow,
and the aster by the roadside; but no word came. In the forests, the
October frosts began their gorgeous work. The ash put on its purple;
the oak its varied coloring; the sumach its blood-red glare; and at
evening, the sun went down in cold, stern splendors behind the painted
mountains. Dry leaves whirled upon the ground; chill clouds mustered
in the sky; and flakes of snow, the harbingers of storm, were blown
along the frozen road. Then winter sank upon the landscape, and deeper
winter on the heart of the unhappy girl.
Time passed on, and the hope of Morton's return grew fainter. Leslie,
seeing his daughter's deep distress, made a journey to Europe; but his
search was fruitless. Meredith, who spent a year on the continent,
pursued the same inquiries, but could trace his friend no farther than
the town of Neuburg, in Bavaria. Morton, before his departure, had
made his will, and in the ardor of his attachment, had left the bulk
of his property to his betrothed, distributing a comparatively small
residue among a number of poor relations, none of whom had either the
means or the worldly knowledge to take measures for ascertaining his
fate.
Meanwhile, Leslie had fallen into a decline; and there was no hope
that his life could be protracted beyond a year or two. He became more
than ever dependent upon Vinal, who now assumed nearly the whole
charge of his affairs, acquitting himself with great ability, and, in
this instance, with entire faithfulness. A rickety manufacturing
concern, which for years had been a drain upon Leslie's purse, began,
under Vinal's control, to yield a good profit; and the former saw all
his resources quickened and replenished, as if by an infusion of new
life.
Vinal was mounting very high in the general esteem. His polished
address,--a little too precise, however,--his acknowledged
scholarship, his character for honor and integrity, and his energy and
capacity for business, commended him to all classes. He passed current
alike in ball rooms and on change. Men of the world never doubted him;
and, after all, this confidence was not quite groundless, for Vinal,
who had a sage eye to his own interest, had embraced the maxim that,
in matters of business, a course of absolute integrity is, under all
ordinary circumstances, the only wise policy.
As, in process of time, the conviction of Morton's death was
confirmed, Leslie's old wish for a union between his daughter and
Vinal began again to grow strong within him. Some two years after her
lover's disappearance, he ventured to speak to her of this favorite
plan; but it was long before he dared allude to it again. Meanwhile,
Vinal's attentions had been assiduous and constant, yet so tempered as
to convey the idea that he despaired of any other reward than the
continuance of her friendship. At length, however, certain of her
father's countenance, and assuming Morton's death as now beyond a
doubt, he began, with all possible delicacy and caution, to renew his
former addresses. He was not long in discovering that his cause was
quite hopeless, unless he could produce some positive proof that
Morton was no longer alive.
During the third summer of the latter's absence, Vinal went, for two
or three months, to Europe, the state of his health being the alleged
motive. While in Paris, he tried to find his former confederate,
Speyer, but could only learn that he was no longer in that city. On
returning to America, he told Leslie that he had inquired after
Morton, on all sides, without the least success, but had taken
measures which, he thought it not impossible, might in time lead to
some discovery. In various parts of Germany, there was, as he
affirmed, a class of travelling merchants and commercial agents, who,
from the nature of their avocations, had every facility for making
inquiries within the districts which they frequented. He had taken
pains, he said, to become acquainted with a large number of these men,
to whom he had stated the case of Morton's disappearance, and promised
a reward for any information concerning him.
Some time after this, he told Leslie that he had had word from one of
these correspondents. The latter, he affirmed, had heard that a young
man, said to be an Englishman, had died very suddenly three or four
years before, in an unfrequented part of Bohemia. The German declared
himself ready, if desired, to go to the district in question, and
inquire into the matter. Leslie was anxious that the inquiry should be
made; upon which Vinal, though seeming not at all sanguine as to any
result, gave him the name of his imaginary correspondent, and advised
that he should write to him. Leslie, however, as Vinal had foreseen,
desired that the latter should carry on the correspondence. He
accordingly wrote a letter, directed to Jacob Hatz. This he showed to
Leslie, and mailed it in his presence, consigning it to a long repose
in some continental dead letter office. At the same time, he secretly
despatched another letter, directed to Henry Speyer; for he had
meanwhile discovered the address of this serviceable person. This
letter was as follows:--
Dear Sir: You cannot have forgotten some interviews and correspondence
which formerly passed between us concerning a person who soon after
was unfortunate enough to fall under the notice of the Austrian
police. Nothing has since been heard of him, and it is commonly
believed here that he is dead. It is my desire to have this opinion
confirmed; and having found you honorable and efficient on another
occasion, I cannot doubt that I shall find you so in this. May I beg
your services in the following particulars?
1st. To take an imaginary journey into Bohemia, Moravia, or parts
adjacent.
2d. To discover that, three years or more ago, a young man, an
American, named ---- ----, travelling alone on horseback in an
unfrequented part of the country, (this was his habit,) was attacked
by cholera, or any other violent disease prevalent thereabouts, which
carried him off in less than three days.
3d. That he died at a small village inn; that a Lutheran clergyman
took charge of his effects, and wrote to his friends; but that the
letter may have miscarried, or the clergyman may have played false,
and kept the windfall that had come to him.
4th. That two years ago, the clergyman removed into Hungary, but that
the innkeeper, a stupid, beetle-headed fellow, showed you a headstone
in the Protestant burial ground, with ----'s name upon it. The
innkeeper may describe him as a young man of twenty-four, or less, but
must not remember too much, as this might attract further inquiry.
This is the outline, and will serve to indicate the kind of thing
required. Vary it, in respect to details, as your judgment and your
knowledge of the customs of the country may suggest. Names are
omitted. Please observe the ciphers which stand in their places. You
will soon receive, through another channel, means to supply the
deficiency, if, indeed, your memory will not do so unaided.
Sign your letter _Jacob Hatz_. There is another point, which I beg you
to observe particularly. Mention that on the gravestone, besides the
name, was carved a figure, like an urn or cup, with a large ball above
it. Date of death, also;--December 7, 1841.
I herewith enclose five hundred francs. On receiving your reply, _with
this letter enclosed_, I shall immediately send you five hundred more.
If I were not a poor man, and expecting always to be so, I could
remunerate your services better.
With the fullest reliance on your honor and discretion, I remain,
Yours, truly, ---- ----.
P. S. For your better direction, I subjoin a formula to be followed in
the beginning of your letter. You can word the rest in your own way.
Write in French.
Vinal, if he had dared, would gladly have forged such a letter as he
required, instead of trusting to another person; but art or nature had
not gifted him with the needful skill; and he was anxious, moreover,
to have the foreign postmarks stamped upon it in form.
In due time, Speyer's answer came. He had neglected to return Vinal's
letter, as desired; but in other respects, his performance gave his
employer ample satisfaction. The latter showed it to Leslie, who
seemed convinced by it; while his daughter, on reading it, abandoned
at once the hope to which she had hitherto clung, that Morton might
still be living.
"I remember this Hatz very well," said Vinal; "he seemed to be a
plain, honest sort of man,--an agent, I believe, of a merchant in
Strasburg. And yet the reward I promised might have been too great a
temptation."
"Then," said Leslie, "you would not receive this as a proof of Mr.
Morton's death?"
"No, I would not: that is, I should not but for one thing;--it is so
very much like Vassall Morton to be travelling alone, on horseback, in
an out-of-the-way part of the country."
"Did you observe," pursued Leslie, "what he says of figures of an urn
and ball cut on the gravestone?"
"I saw it, but did not observe it particularly."
Leslie gave him the letter, and Vinal read the part referred to.
"What can it mean?" asked Leslie.
"I can't conceive," replied Vinal.
"It is the vase and sun," said Edith Leslie; "the device of his
mother's family, the Vassalls."
"Ah," exclaimed Vinal, looking up with a face of mournful interest,
"you must be right; the same figures are carved on the tomb of the
Vassalls, in the old churchyard at Cambridge."
"They were cut," pursued Miss Leslie, "on a garnet ring, which he
always used as a seal."
"I remember his showing me that ring," said her father, "and telling
me that it was older than the voyage of the Mayflower. It was a kind
of heirloom, which his mother had left him."
"Yes," suggested the sympathizing Vinal, who had long known that
Morton used no other seal than this ring; "and the device on it was
supposed to be his armorial bearing, and so cut on the gravestone, as
it is on the Vassall tomb at Cambridge."
All doubt of Morton's death was now dispelled. His betrothed stored
his image in her thoughts, as that of one lost for this world; and
Vinal saw the field clear before him. Leslie was failing fast; and, as
his life ebbed, his wish for his daughter's marriage with Vinal grew
and strengthened. He urged her, daily, to listen to his suit;
extolling his favorite's talents, energy, acquirements, and
unimpeachable character--praises which she believed to be wholly just.
Vinal, on his part, seconded these parental efforts with most earnest,
beseeching, not to say abject importunities. The compassion which he
contrived to excite, an idea of duty, and an urgent wish to gratify
her dying father, at length prevailed with her; and laying before
Vinal the true state of her feelings, she consented, on such terms, to
accept his suit.
Vinal had gained his point; but he had scarcely done so, when his
spirits were dashed by an untoward incident, the nature of which may
be guessed hereafter. And, as it never rains but it pours, this
reverse of luck was soon followed by a second, of another kind.
One afternoon, returning from his customary constitutional ride, he
was in the act of turning the upper corner of a street which slopes
downward somewhat steeply till it meets a main thoroughfare of the
town. A small ragamuffin boy was standing on the curbstone, with a
blade of grass between his thumbs, through which he blew with might
and main, evidently to startle Vinal's horse, whose head was within a
yard of him. He succeeded to his complete satisfaction. Vinal switched
at the youngster with his whip; but this only made matters worse. The
horse galloped down the street at a rate which his rider's weak arm
could not check; and, at the corner of the main street, wheeling
suddenly to the left, he slipped on the wet pavement, and fell with a
crash on his side. Horse and man lay motionless, till a city teamster,
running up, raised the former by the bridle. Two or three passers by
came to Vinal's aid; but as they lifted him, he set his teeth with
pain. The horse had fallen on his left leg, breaking it above the
knee.
Vinal was timid to excess in time of danger; but he could bear pain
with the firmness of a stoic. While he felt himself run away with, and
at the moment of his fall, he had been greatly confused. He no sooner
saw that the worst was over, than he rallied his faculties, and
asserted his usual self-mastery. His face was fast growing pale with
violence of pain; but he was quite himself again.
A crowd gathered about him, as he lay leaning on the steps of the
neighboring church.
"Shall we carry you to the ---- Hotel?" asked a gentleman.
"Yes, if you please. But first be kind enough to bring a shutter. They
will give you one at the school round the corner. When a man is
killed, drunk, or maimed, there is nothing like a shutter. How do you
do, Edwards?"--to a man whom he recognized in the crowd.
"I hope you are not badly hurt."
"My leg is broken."
"Are you in great pain?"
"Yes; a bad business, I think. Will you oblige me by seeing that my
horse is led to the stable in ---- Street?"
The shutter was soon brought.
"Thank you. Lift me very gently."
As they moved him he clinched his teeth again in silent torture.
"All right. Now one take the shutter at the head, and one at the feet.
You'll find me a light weight."
And thus, between two men, escorted by a procession of schoolboys just
let loose, Vinal was carried to the hotel.
The event justified his presage. He was forced to lie motionless for
weeks, suffering greatly from bodily pain, and no less from certain
anxieties which of late had harassed him. Leslie, on his part, was in
great distress at the disaster. He felt, or fancied himself, near his
end; and the wish next his heart was to see the marriage accomplished
before he died. It was therefore determined that, notwithstanding the
inauspicious plight of the bridegroom, it should take place at the
time before fixed upon, four months after the beginning of the
engagement.
The ceremony was very private. None were present but two or three
friends of Miss Leslie, the dying father, borne thither in a chair,
the disabled bridegroom, and the pale and agitated bride; for that
morning, standing before Morton's picture, a strange misgiving and a
dark foreboding had fallen upon her, and the sun never shone on a
bride more wretched. Her nearest friend, Mrs. Ashland, was at her
side. She was the only person, besides her father and Vinal, who knew
of her engagement to Morton, and, indeed, had been her confidante from
first to last. Soon after Morton's disappearance, an accident had
brought them together, reviving an old school intimacy; and Edith
Leslie, in her suspense and misery, was but too glad to find a friend
in whom she could trust without reserve.
The rite was ended, and Edith Leslie was Edith Vinal. Days and weeks
passed; Leslie slowly declined, and Vinal slowly recovered. She
divided her time between them, passing the greater part of the day
with the latter, and returning at evening to watch by her father's bed
or rest within sound of his voice. At length, three weeks after her
marriage, on a morning the horror of which remained scarred always in
her memory, Morton's letter from Genoa was put into her hands; and the
long-disciplined patience with which she had armed herself, the
religion which she had called to her aid, all the guards and defences
of her mind, were borne down, for a time, by the resistless flood of
passion, which, like a river bursting its barriers, swept all before
it.