The little cottage at Port-na-Whapple, to which Alfred Layton had
repaired to collect the last few relics of his poor mother, had so
completely satisfied all his longings for quiet seclusion, that he
lingered on there in a sort of dreamy abstractedness far from
unpleasing. Quackinboss was with him, but never was there a companion
less obtrusive. The honest American delighted in the spot; he was a
fisherman, and soon became acquainted with all the choice places for the
take of salmon, while he oftentimes strolled inland and whipped the
mountain streams with no small success. In fact, the gun, the rod, and a
well-trained greyhound amply supplied all the demands of the household;
and never was there a life less crossed by outward cares than theirs.
Whether the Colonel believed or not that Layton was deeply engaged in
his studies, he affected to think so, and made a point of interfering as
little as possible with the other's time. If by a chance word now and
then he would advert to their projected trip to America, he never
pressed the theme, nor seemed in any way to evince over-eagerness
regarding it. Indeed, with a delicacy of truest refinement, he abstained
from making Layton ever feel himself constrained by the deep obligations
he owed him, so that nothing could be freer than their intercourse; the
only theme of gloom between them being the fate of Layton's father, of
which, notwithstanding all their efforts, they could obtain no tidings.
From the day when he quitted the asylum, and was pronounced “cured,”
nothing was known of him. Dr. Millar had assisted in all their inquiries
with a most friendly interest, and endeavored to induce Alfred to accept
the hospitalities of the vicarage; but this he declined, making weak
health his apology. The vicar, however, did not cease to show his
constant attention, feeling deeply interested in the youth. In nothing
did he evince this sentiment more than the trouble he gave himself to
collect the scattered papers and documents of the old Professor. The old
man--accustomed ever to an existence of emergency--was in the habit of
pledging his private papers and his own writings for small sums here and
there through the country; and thus researches which had cost months of
labor, investigations of deepest import, were oftentimes pawned at a
public for a few shillings. Scarcely a day went over without some record
being brought in by a farmer or a small village tradesman; sometimes
valueless, sometimes of great interest. Now and then they would be
violent and rebellious pasquinades against men in power,--his supposed
enemies,--versified slanders upon imaginary oppressors.
Neither imbued with Alfred's taste nor influenced by the ties of blood,
Quackinboss took a pleasure in poring over these documents which the
young man could not feel. The Professor, to him, seemed the true type of
intellectual power, and he had that bold recklessness of all
consequences which appealed strongly to the Yankee. He was, as he
phrased it, an “all-mighty smasher,” and would have been a rare man for
Congress! All Alfred's eagerness to possess himself of his father's
papers was soon exceeded by the zeal of Quackinboss, who, by degrees,
abandoned gun and rod to follow out his new pursuit. If he could not
estimate the value of deep scientific calculations and researches, he
was fully alive to the sparkling wit and envenomed satire of the various
attacks upon individuals; and so enamored was he of these effusions,
that many of the verse ones he had committed to memory.
Poor Alfred! what a struggle was his, as Quackinboss would recite some
lines of fearful malignity, asking him, the while “if all English
literature could show such another ''tarnal screamer' as his own parent?
Warn't he a 'right-down scarification'? Did n't he scald the hides of
them old hogs in the House of Lords? Well, I 'm blest if Mr. Clay could
a-done it better!” To the young man's mild suggestions that his father's
fame would rest upon very different labors, Quackinboss would hastily
offer rejoinder, “No, sir, chemicals is all very well, but human natur'
is a grander study than acids and oxides. What goes on in a man's heart
is a main sight harder reading than salts and sediments.”
The Colonel had learned in the course of his wanderings that a farmer
who inhabited one of the lone islands off the coast was in possession of
an old writing-desk of the Professor,--the pledge for a loan of three
pounds sterling,--a sum so unusually large as to imply that the property
was estimated as of value. It was some time before the weather admitted
of a visit to the spot, but late of a summer's evening, as Alfred sat
musingly on the door-sill of the cottage, Quackinboss was seen
approaching with an old-fashioned writing-desk under his arm, while he
called out, “Here it is; and without knowin' the con-tents, I 'd not
swap the plunder for a raft of timber!”
If the moment of examining the papers was longed for by the impatient
Quackinboss with an almost feverish anxiety, what was his blank
disappointment at finding that, instead of being the smart squibs or
bitter invectives he delighted in, the whole box was devoted to
documents relating to a curious incident in medical jurisprudence, and
was labelled on the inner side of the lid, “Hawke's case, with all the
tests and other papers.”
“This seems to have been a great criminal case,” said Alfred, “and it
must have deeply interested my father, for he has actually drawn out a
narrative of the whole event, and has even journalized his share in the
story.
“'Strange scene that I have just left,' wrote he, in a clear, exact
hand. 'A man very ill--seriously, dangerously ill--in one room, and a
party--his guests--all deeply engaged at play in the same house. No
apparent anxiety about his case,--scarcely an inquiry; his wife--if she
be his wife, for I have my misgivings about it--eager and feverish,
following me from place to place, with a sort of irresolute effort to
say something which she has no courage for. Patient worse,--the case a
puzzling one; there is more than delirium tremens here. But what more?
that's the question. Remarkable his anxiety about the sense of burning
in the throat; ever asking, “Is that usual? is it invariable?”
Suspicion, of course, to be looked for; but why does it not extend to
_me_ also? Afraid to drink, though his thirst is excruciating. Symptoms
all worse; pulse irregular; desires to see me alone; his wife,
unwilling, tries by many pretexts to remain; he seems to detect her
plan, and bursts into violent passion, swears at her, and cries out,
“Ain't you satisfied? Don't you see that I 'm dying?”'
“'We have been alone for above an hour. He has told me all; she is not
his wife, but the divorced wife of a well-known man in office. Believes
she intended to leave him; knows, or fancies he knows, her whole
project. Rage and anger have increased the bad symptoms, and made him
much worse. Great anxiety about the fate of his child, a daughter of his
former wife; constantly exclaiming, “They will rob her! they will leave
her a beggar, and I have none to protect her.” A violent paroxysm of
pain--agonizing pain--has left him very low.
“'“What name do you give this malady, doctor?” he asks me.
“'“It is a gastric inflammation, but not unaccompanied by other
symptoms.”
“'“How brought on?”
“'“No man can trace these affections to primary causes.”
“'“I can,--here, at least,” breaks he in. “This is poison, and _you_
know it. Come, sir,” he cried, “be frank and honest with one whose
moments are to be so few here. Tell me, as you would speak the truth in
your last hour, am I not right?”
“'“I cannot say with certainty. There are things here I am unable to
account for, and there are traits which I cannot refer to any poisonous
agency.”
“'“Think over the poisons; you know best. Is it arsenic?”
“'“No, certainly not.”
“'“Nor henbane, nor nicotine, nor nitre, nor strychnine,--none of
these?”
“'“None.”
“'“How subtle the dogs have been!” muttered he. “What fools they make of
you, with all your science! The commonest money-changer will detect a
spurious shilling, but you, with all your learning, are baffled by every
counterfeit case that meets you. Examine, sir; inquire, investigate
well,” he cried; “it is for your honor as a physician not to blunder
here.”
“'“Be calm; compose yourself. These moments of passion only waste your
strength.”
“'“Let me drink,--no, from the water-jug; they surely have not drugged
_that!_ What are you doing there?”
“'“I was decanting the tea into a small bottle, that I might take it
home and test it.”
“'“And so,” said he, sighing, “with all your boasted skill, it is only
after death you can pronounce. It is to aid the law, not to help the
living, you come. Be it so. But mind, sir,” cried he, with a wild
energy, “they are all in it,--all. Let none escape. And these were my
friends!” said he, with a smile of inexpressible sorrow. “Oh, what
friends are a bad man's friends! You swear to me, doctor, if there has
been foul play it shall be discovered. They shall swing for it Don't you
screen them. No mumbling, sir; your oath,--your solemn sworn oath! Take
those keys and open that drawer there,--no, the second one; fetch me the
papers. This was my will two months ago,” said he, tearing open the
seals of an envelope. “You shall see with your own eyes how I meant by
her. You will declare to the world how you read in my own hand that I
had left her everything that was not Clara's by right. Call her here;
send for her; let her be present while you read it aloud, and let her
see it burned afterwards.”
“'It was long before I could calm him after this paroxysm. At length he
said: “What a guilty conscience will be yours if this crime pass
unpunished!”
“'“If there be a crime, it shall not,” said I, firmly.
“'“If it were to do,” muttered he, in a low voice, “I 'd rather they 'd
have shot me; these agonies are dreadful, and all this lingering too!
Oh! could you not hasten it now? But not yet!” cried he, wildly. “I have
to tell you about Clara. They may rob her of all here, but she will be
rich after all. There is that great tract in America, in Ohio, called
'Peddar's Clearings;' don't forget the name. Peddar's Clearings, all
hers; it was her mother's fortune. Harvey Winthrop, in Norfolk, has the
titles, and is the guardian when I am dead.”'”
“Why, I know that 'ere tract well; there's a cousin of mine, Obadiah B.
Quackinboss, located there, and there ain't finer buckwheat in all the
West than is grown on that location. But go on, let's hear about this
sick fellow.”
“This is an account of chemical tests, all this here,” said Alfred,
passing over several leaves of the diary. “It seems to have been a
difficult investigation, but ending at last in the detection of
corrosive sublimate.”
“And it killed him?”
“Yes; he died on the third evening after this was written. Here follows
the whole story of the inquest, and a remarkable letter, too, signed 'T.
Towers.' It is addressed to my father, and marked 'Private and Secret':
'The same hand which delivers you this will put you in possession of
five hundred pounds sterling; and, in return, you will do whatever is
necessary to make all safe. There is no evidence, except yours, of
consequence; and all the phials and bottles have been already disposed
of. Be cautious, and stand fast to yours,--T. T.' On a slip wafered to
this note was written: 'I am without twenty shillings in the world; my
shoes are falling to pieces, and my coat threadbare; but I cannot do
this.' But what have we here?” cried Alfred, as a neatly folded note
with deep black margin met his eyes. It was a short and most gracefully
worded epistle in a lady's hand, thanking Dr. Layton for his unremitting
kindness and perfect delicacy in a season of unexampled suffering. “I
cannot,” wrote she, “leave the island, dearly associated as it is with
days of happiness, and now more painfully attached to my heart by the
most terrible of afflictions, without tendering to the kindest of
physicians my last words of gratitude.” The whole, conveyed in lines of
strictly conventional use, gave no evidence of anything beyond a due
sense of courtesy, and the rigid observance of a fitting etiquette. It
was very polished in style, and elegant in phraseology; but to have been
written amid such scenes as she then lived in, it seemed a perfect
marvel of unfeeling conduct.
“That 'ere woman riles me considerable,” said Quackinboss; “she doesn't
seem to mind, noways, what has happened, and talks of goin' to a new
clearin' quite uncon-sarned like. I ain't afraid of many things, but I
'm darned extensive if I 'd not be afeard of her! What are you a-por-ing
over there?”
“It is the handwriting. I am certain I have seen it before; but where,
how, and when, I cannot bring to mind.”
“How could you, sir? Don't all your womankind write that sort of up-and-
down bristly hand, more like a prickly-pear fence than a Christian's
writin'? It's all of a piece with your Old-World civilization, which
tries to make people alike, as the eggs in a basket; but they ain't
like, for all that. No, sir, nor will any fixin' make 'em so!”
“I have certainly seen it before,” muttered Layton to himself.
“I 'm main curious to know how your father found out the 'pyson,'--ain't
it all there?”
“Oh, it was a long and very intricate chemical investigation.”
“Did he bile him?”
“Boil him? No,” said he, with difficulty restraining a laugh;'
'certainly not.”
“Well, they tell me, sir, there ain't no other sure way to discover it.
They always bile 'em in France!”
“I am so puzzled by this hand,” muttered Alfred, half aloud.
Quackinboss, equally deep in his own speculations, proceeded to give an
account of the mode of inquiry pursued by Frenchmen of science in cases
of poisoning, which certainly would have astonished M. Orfila, and was
only brought back from this learned disquisition by Layton's questioning
him about “Peddar's Clearings.”
“Yes, sir,” said he, “it is con-siderable of a tract, and lies between
two rivers. There 's the lines for a new city--Pentacolis--laid down
there; and the chief town, 'Measles,' is a thriving location. My cousin,
O. B. Quackinboss, did n't stump out less than eighty dollars an acre
for his clearin', and there's better land than his there.”
“So far as appears, then, this is an extensive property which is spoken
of here?”
“Well, sir, I expect it's a matter of half a million of dollars now,
though, mayhap, twenty thousand bought it fifteen or sixteen years
back.”
“I wonder what steps my father took in this affair? I 'll be very
curious to know if he interested himself in the matter; for, with his
indolent habits, it is just as likely that he never moved in it
further.”
“A 'tarnal shame, then, for him, sir, when it was for a child left alone
and friendless in the world; and I'm thinkin' indolence ain't the name
to give it.”
For a moment an angry impulse to reply stirred Layton's blood, but he
refrained, and said nothing.
“I'll go further,” resumed the American, “and I'll say that if your
father did neglect this duty, you are bound to look to it. Ay, sir,
there ain't no ways in this world of getting out of what we owe one to
another. We are most of us ready enough to be 'generous,' but few take
trouble to be 'just.'”
“I believe you are right,” said Layton, reflectively.
“I know it, sir,--I know it,” said the other, resolutely. “There's a
sort of flattery in doing something more than we are obliged to do which
never comes of doing what is strict fair. Ay,” added he, after a moment,
“and I 've seen a man who 'd jump into the sea to save a fellow-creature
as would n't give a cent to a starving beggar on dry land.”
“I 'll certainly inquire after this claim, and you 'll help me,
Quackinboss?”
“Yes, sir; and there ain't no honester man in all the States to deal
with than Harvey Winthrop. I was with him the day he cowhided Senator
Jared Boles, of Massachusetts, and when I observed, 'I think you have
given him enough,' he said, 'Well, sir, though I have n't the honor of
knowing _you_, if that be your conscientious opinion, I 'll abstain from
going further;' and he did, and we went into the bar together, and had a
mint julep.”
“The trait is worth remembering,” said Layton, dryly. “Here's another
reason to cross the Atlantic,” cried he, with something of his former
energy of voice and look.
“Here's a great cause to sustain and a problem to work out. Shall we go
at once?”
“There's the 'Asia' to sail on Wednesday, and I 'm ready,” said
Quackinboss, calmly.
“Wednesday be it, then,” cried Layton, with a gayety that showed how the
mere prospect of activity and exertion had already cheered him.