ain't that place on the globe old Poll, as we call him, could n't make a
livin' in; he's a man as could help a minister with his discourse, or
teach a squaw how to work moccasins. I don't know what _your_ trade is,
but I 'll be bound he knows something about it _you_ never heerd of.”
Mr. Heron went on to prove how universally gifted his friend was by
mentioning how, on his first arrival, he gave a course of lectures on a
plan which assuredly might have presented obstacles to many. It was only
when the room was filled, and the public itself consulted, that the
theme of the lecture was determined; so that the speaker was actually
called upon, without a moment for preparation, to expatiate upon any
given subject. Nor was the test less trying that the hearers were plain
practical folk, who usually propounded questions in which they possessed
some knowledge themselves. How to open a new clearing, what treatment to
apply to the bite of the whipsnake, by what contrivance to economize
water in mills, how to tan leather without oak bark,--such and such-like
were the theses placed before him, matters on which the public could
very sufficiently pronounce themselves. Old Poll, it would seem, had
sustained every test, and come through every ordeal of demand
victorious. While the host thus continued to expatiate on this man's
marvellous gifts, Layton fell a-thinking whether this might not be the
very spot he sought for, and this the audience before whom he could
experiment on as a public speaker. It was quite evident that the verdict
could confer little either of distinction or disparagement: success or
failure were, as regarded the future, not important. If, however, he
could succeed in interesting them at all,--if he could make the themes
of which they had never so much as heard in any way amusing or
engaging,--it would be a measure of what he might attain with more
favorable hearers. He at once propounded his plan to Mr. Heron, not
confessing, however, that he meditated a first attempt, but speaking as
an old and practised lecturer.
“What can you give 'em, sir? They 're horny-handed and flat-footed folk
down here, but they 'll not take an old hen for a Bucks county chicken,
I tell _you!_”
“I am a little in your friend Poll's line,” said Layton, good-humoredly.
“I could talk to them about history, and long ago; what kind of men
ruled amongst Greeks and Romans; what sort of wars they waged; how they
colonized, and what they did with the conquered. If my hearers had
patience for it, I could give them some account of their great orators
and poets.”
Heron shook his head dissentingly, and said Poll told 'em all that, and
nobody wanted it, till he came to them chaps they call the gladiators,
and showed how they used to spar and hit out. “Was n't it grand to see
him, with his great chest and strong old arms, describin' all their
movements, and how much they trusted to activity, imitating all from the
wild beast,--not like our boxers, who make fighting a reg'lar man's
combat. You couldn't take up that, could you?”
“I fear not,” said Layton, despondingly.
“Well, tell 'em something of the old country in a time near their own.
They 'd like to hear about their greatgrandfathers and grandmothers.”
“Would they listen to me if I made Ireland the subject,--Ireland just
before she was incorporated with England, when, with a Parliament of her
own, she had a resident gentry, separate institutions, and strong traits
of individual nationality?”
“Tell 'em about fellows that had strong heads and stout hands, that,
though they mightn't always be right in their opinions, was willing and
ready to fight for 'em. Give 'em a touch of the way they talked in their
House of Parliament; and if you can bring in a story or two, and make
'em laugh,--it ain't a'ways easy to do,--but if you _can_ do it, you may
travel from Cape Cod to the Gulf of Mexico and never change a dollar.”
“Here goes, then! I 'll try it!” said Layton, at once determined to risk
the effort. “When can it be?”
“It must be at once, for there 's a number of 'em a-goin' West next
week. Say to-morrow night, seven o'clock. Entrance, twelve cents; first
chairs, five-and-twenty. No smokin' allowed, except between the acts.”
“Take all the arrangements on yourself, and give me what you think fair
of our profits,” said Layton.
“That's reasonable; no man can say it ain't. What's your name,
stranger?”
“My name is Alfred--But never mind my name; announce me as a Gentleman
from England.”
“Who has lectured before the Queen and Napoleon Bonaparte.”
“Nay, that I have never done.”
“Well, but you might, you know; and if you didn't, the greater loss
theirs.”
“Perhaps so; but I can't consent--”
“Just leave them things to me. And now, one hint for yourself: when you
're a-windin' up, dash it all with a little soft sawder, sayin' as how
you 'd rather be addressin' _them_ than the Emperor of Roosia; that the
sight of men as loves liberty, and knows how to keep it, is as good as
Peat's vegetable balsam, that warms the heart without feverin' the
blood; and that wherever you go the 'membrance of the city and its
enlightened citizens will be the same as photographed on your heart;
that there's men here ought to be in Congress, and women fit for queens!
And if you throw in a bit of the star-spangled--you know what--it 'll do
no harm.”
Layton only smiled at these counsels, offered, however, in a spirit far
from jesting; and after a little further discussion of the plan, Heron
said, “Oh, if we only could get old Poll bright enough to write the
placards,--that's what he excels in; there ain't his equal for capitals
anywhere.”
Though Layton felt very little desire to have the individual referred to
associated with him or his scheme, he trusted to the impossibility of
the alliance, and gave himself no trouble to repudiate it; and after a
while they parted, with a good-night and hope for the morrow.
CHAPTER XLIII. BUNKUMVILLE
“You would n't believe it,--no one would believe it,” said Mr. Heron, as
he hastily broke in upon Layton the next morning, deep in preparations
for the coming event “There 's old Poll all spry and right again; he
asked for water to shave himself, an invariable sign with him that he
was a-goin' to try a new course.”
Layton, not caring to open again what might bear upon this history,
merely asked some casual question upon the arrangements for the evening;
but Heron rejoined: “I told Poll to do it all. The news seemed to revive
him; and far from, as I half dreaded, any jealousy about another taking
his place, he said, 'This looks like a promise of better things down
here. If our Bunkumville folk will only encourage lecturers to come
amongst them, their tone of thinking and speaking will improve. They 'll
do their daily work in a better spirit, and enjoy their leisure with a
higher zest.'”
“Strange sentiments from one such as you pictured to me last night.”
“Lord love ye, that's his way. He beats all the Temperance 'Postles
about condemning drink. He can tell more anecdotes of the mischief it
works, explain better its evil on the health, and the injury it works in
a man's natur', than all the talkers ever came out of the Mayne
Convention.”
“Which scarcely says much for the force of his convictions,” said
Layton, smiling.
“I only wish he heard you say so, Britisher; if he would n't chase you
up a pretty high tree, call _me_ a land crab! I remember well, one
night, how he lectured on that very point and showed that what was
vulgarly called hypocrisy was jest neither more nor less than a diseased
and exaggerated love of approbation,--them's his words; I took 'em down
and showed 'em to him next morning, and all he said was, 'I suppose I
said it arter dinner.'”
“Am I to see your friend and make his acquaintance?” asked Layton.
“Well,” said the other, with some hesitation, “I rayther suspect not; he
said as much that he did n't like meeting any one from the old country.
It's my idea that he warn't over well treated there, somehow, though he
won't say it.”
“But as one who has never seen him before, and in all likelihood is
never to see him again--”
“No use; whenever he makes up his mind in that quiet way he never
changes, and he said, 'I 'll do all you want, only don't bring me
forward. I have my senses now, and shame is one of 'em!'”
“You increase my desire to see and know this poor fellow.”
“Mayhap you're a-thinkin', Britisher, whether, if you could wile him
away from me, you could n't do a good stroke of work with him down
South,--eh? wasn't that it?”
“No, on my word; nothing of the kind. My desire was simply to know if I
could n't serve him where he was, and where he is probably to remain.”
“Where he is sartainly to remain, I 'd say, sir,--sartainly to remain! I
'd rayther give up the Temple, ay, and all the fixin's, than I 'd give
up that man. There ain't one spot in creation he ain't fit for. Take him
North, and he 'll beat all the Abolitionists ever talked; bring him down
to the old South State, and hear him how he 'll make out that the Bible
stands by slavery, and that Blacks are to Whites what children are to
their elders,--a sort of folk to be fed, and nourished, and looked
arter, and, maybe, cor-rected a little betimes. Fetch him up to Lowell,
and he 'll teach the factory folk in their own mills; and as to the art
of stump-raisin', rotation of crops in a new soil, fattenin' hogs, and
curin' salmon, jest show me one to compare with him!”
“How sad that such a man should be lost!” said Layton, half to himself.
But the other overheard him, and rejoined: “It's always with some
sentiment of that kind you Britishers work out something for your own
benefit. You never conquer a new territory except to propagate trial by
jury and habeas corpus. Now look out here, for I won't stand you 're
steppin' in 'tween _me_ and old Poll.”
It was not enough for Layton to protest that he harbored no such
intentions. Mr. Heron's experiences of mankind had inspired very
different lessons than those of trust and confidence, and he secretly
determined that no opportunity should be given to carry out the treason
he dreaded.
“When the lecturin'-room is a-clean swept out and dusted, the table
placed, and the blackboard with a piece of chalk ahind it, and the bills
a-posted, setting forth what you 're a-goin' to stump out, there ain't
no need for more. If _you_ 've got the stuff in you to amuse our folk,
you 'll see the quarter dollars a-rollin' in, in no time! If they think,
however, that you 're only come here to sell 'em grit for buckwheat,
darm me considerable, but there's lads here would treat you to a
cowhide!”
Layton did not hear this alternative with all the conscious security of
success, not to say that it was a penalty on failure far more severe and
practical than any his fears had ever anticipated. Coldness he was
prepared for, disapprobation he might endure, but he was not ready to be
treated as a cheat and impostor because he had not satisfied the
expectancies of an audience.
“I half regret,” said he, “that I should not have learned something more
of your public before making my appearance to them. It may not be,
perhaps, too late.”
“Well, I suspect it _is_ too late,” said the other, dryly. “They won't
stand folks a-postin' up bills, and then sayin' 'There ain't no
performance.' You 're not in the Haymarket, sir, where you can come out
with a flam about sudden indisposition, and a lie signed by a
'pottecary.”
“But if I leave the town?”
“I wouldn't say you mightn't, if you had a balloon,” said the other,
laughing; “but as to any other way, I defy you!”
Layton was not altogether without the suspicion that Mr. Heron was
trying to play upon his fears, and this was exactly the sort of outrage
that a mind like his would least tolerate. It was, to be sure, a wild,
out-of-the-world kind of place; the people were a rough, semi-civilized-
looking set; public opinion in such a spot _might_ take a rude form;
what they deemed unequal to their expectations, they _might_ construe as
a fraud upon their pockets; and if so, and that their judgment should
take the form he hinted at--Still, he was reluctant to accept this
version of the case, and stood deeply pondering what line to adopt.
“You don't like it, stranger; now that's a fact,” said Heron, as he
scanned his features. “You 've been a-thinkin', 'Oh, any rubbish I like
will be good enough for these bark-cutters. What should such fellows
know, except about their corn crops and their saw-mills? _I_ needn't
trouble my head about what I talk to 'em.' But now, you see, it ain't
so; you begin to perceive that Jonathan, with his sleeves rolled up for
work, is a smart man, who keeps his brains oiled and his thoughts
polished, like one of Platt's engines, and it won't do to ask him to
make French rolls out of sawdust!”
Layton was still silent, partly employed in reviewing the difficulty of
his position, but even more, perhaps, from chagrin at the tone of
impertinence addressed to him.
“Yes, sir,” said Heron, continuing an imaginary dialogue with himself,--
“yes, sir; that's a mistake more than one of your countrymen has fallen
into. As Mr. Clay said, it 's so hard for an Englishman not to think of
us as colonists.”
“I 've made up my mind,” said Layton, at last “I 'll not lecture.”
“Won't you? Then all I can say is, Britisher, look out for a busy
arternoon. I told you what our people was. I warned you that if they
struck work an hour earlier to listen to a preacher, it would fare ill
with him if he wanted the mill to turn without water.”
“I repeat, I 'll not lecture, come what may of it,” said Layton, firmly.
“Well, it ain't so very hard to guess what _will_ come of it,” replied
the other.
“This is all nonsense and folly, sir,” said Layton, angrily. “I have
taken no man's money; I have deceived no one. Your people, when I shall
have left this place, will be no worse than when I entered it.”
“If that 's your platform, stranger, come out and defend it; we 'll have
a meetin' called, and I promise you a fair hearin'.”
“I have no account to render to any. I am not responsible for my conduct
to one of you!” said Layton, angrily.
“You're a-beggin' the whole question, stranger; so jest keep these
arguments for the meetin'.”
“Meeting! I will attend no meeting! Whatever be your local ways and
habits, you have no right to impose them upon a stranger. I am not one
of you; I will not be one of you.”
“That's more of the same sort of reasonin'; but you 'll be chastised,
Britisher, see if you ain't!”
“Let me have some sort of conveyance, or, if need be, a horse. I will
leave this at once. Any expenses I have incurred I am ready to pay. You
hear me?”
“Yes, I hear you, but that ain't enough. You 're bound by them bills, as
you 'll see stickin' up all through the town, to appear this evening and
deliver a lecture before the people of this city--”
“One word for all, I 'll not do it.”
“And do you tell me, sir, that when our folk is a-gatherin' about the
assembly rooms, that they 're to be told to go home ag'in; that the
Britisher has changed his mind, and feels someways as if he didn't like
it?”
“That may be as it can; my determination is fixed. You may lecture
yourself; or you can, perhaps, induce your friend--I forget his name--to
favor the company.”
“Well, sir, if old Poll's strength was equal to it, the public would n't
have to regret _you_. It ain't one of _your_ stamp could replace _him_,
that I tell you.”
A sudden thought here flashed across Layton's mind, and he hastened to
profit by it.
“Why not ask him to take my place? I am ready, most ready, to requite
his services. Tell him, if you like, that I will pay all the expenses of
the evening, and leave him the receipts. Or say, if he prefer, that I
will give him thirty, forty, ay, fifty dollars, if he will relieve me
from an engagement I have no mind for.”
“Well, that does sound a bit reasonable,” said the other, slowly;
“though, mayhap, he 'll not think the terms so high. You would n't say
eighty, or a hundred, would you? He 's proud, old Poll, and it's best
not to offend him by a mean offer.”
Layton bit his lip impatiently, and walked up and down the room without
speaking.
“Not to say,” resumed Heron, “that he's jest out of a sick-bed; the
exertion might give him a relapse. The contingencies is to be
calc'lated, as they say on the railroads.”
“If it be only a question between fifty and eighty--”
“That's it,--well spoken. Well, call it a hundred, and I'm off to see if
it can't be done.” And without waiting for a reply, Heron hastened out
of the room as he spoke.
Notwithstanding the irritation the incident caused him, Layton could
not, as soon as he found himself alone, avoid laughing at the absurdity
of his situation.
If he never went the full length of believing in the hazardous
consequences Mr. Heron predicted, he at least saw that he must be
prepared for any mark of public disfavor his disappointment might
excite; and it was just possible such censure might assume a very
unpleasant shape. The edicts of Judge Lynch are not always in accordance
with the dignity of the accused, and though this consideration first
forced him to laugh, his second thoughts were far graver. Nor were these
thoughts unmixed with doubts as to what Quackinboss would say of the
matter. Would he condemn the rashness of his first pledge, or the
timidity of his retreat; or would he indignantly blame him for
submission to a menace? In the midst of these considerations, Heron
reentered the room.
“There, sir; it's all signed and sealed. Old Poll's to do the work, and
you 're to be too ill to appear. That will require your stayin' here
till nightfall; but when the folks is at the hall, you can slip through
the town and make for New Lebanon.”
“And I am to pay--how much did you say?”
“What you proposed yourself, sir. A hundred dollars.”
“At eight o'clock, then, let me have a wagon ready,” said Layton, too
much irritated with his own conduct to be moved by anything in that of
his host. He therefore paid little attention to Mr. Heron's account of
all the ingenuity and address it had cost him to induce old Poll to
become his substitute, nor would he listen to one word of the
conversation reported to have passed on that memorable occasion. What
cared he to hear how old Poll looked ten years younger since the
bargain? He was to be dressed like a gentleman; he was to be in full
black; he was to resume all the dignity of the station he had once held;
while he gave the public what he had hitherto resolutely refused,--some
account of himself and his own life. Layton turned away impatiently at
these details; they were all associated with too much that pained to
interest or to please him.
“The matter is concluded now, and let me hear no more of it,” said he,
peevishly. “I start at eight.” And with this he turned away, leaving no
excuse to his host to remain, or resume an unpalatable subject.
“Your wagon shall be here at the hour, and a smart pair of horses to
bowl you along, sir,” said Heron, too well satisfied on the whole to be
annoyed by a passing coldness.
CHAPTER XLIV. THE LECTURER
Alfred Layton's day dragged drearily along, watching and waiting for the
hour of departure. Close prisoner as he was, the time hung heavily on
his hands, without a book or any sort of companionship to beguile its
weariness. He tried various ways to pass the hours; he pondered over a
faintly colored and scarce traceable map on the walls. It represented
America, with all the great western annexations, in that condition of
vague obscurity in which geographers were wont to depict the Arctic
regions. He essayed to journalize his experiences on the road; but he
lost patience in recording the little incidents which composed them. He
endeavored to take counsel with himself about his future; but he lost
heart in the inquiry, as he bethought him how little direction he had
ever given hitherto to his life, and how completely he had been the
sport of accident.
He was vexed and angry with himself. It was the first time he had been
called upon to act by his own guidance for months back, and he had made
innumerable mistakes in the attempt. Had Quackinboss been with him, he
well knew all these blunders had been avoided. This reflection pained
him, just as it has pained many a gifted and accomplished man to think
that life and the world are often more difficult than book-learning.
He was too much out of temper with the town to interest himself in what
went on beneath his windows, and only longed for night, that he might
leave it never to return. At last the day began to wane, the shadows
fell longer across the empty street, some cawing rooks swept over the
tree-tops to their homes in the tall pines, and an occasional wagon
rolled heavily by, with field implements in it,--sign all that the hours
of labor had drawn to a close. “I shall soon be off,” muttered he; “soon
hastening away from a spot whose memory will be a nightmare to me.” In
the gray half-light he sat, thinking the thought which has found its way
into so many hearts. What meaning have these little episodes of
loneliness? What are the lessons they are meant to teach? Are they
intended to attach us more closely to those we love, by showing how
wearily life drags on in absence from them; or are they meant as seasons
of repose, in which we may gain strength for fresh efforts?
Mr. Heron broke in upon these musings. He came to say that crowds were
hurrying to the lecture-room, and in a few minutes more Layton might
steal away, and, reaching the outskirts of the town, gain the wagon that
was to convey him to Lebanon.
“You 'll not forget this place, I reckon,” said he, as he assisted
Layton to close and fasten up his carpet-bag. “You'll be proud, one of
these days, to say, 'I was there some five-and-twenty, or maybe thirty,
years back. There was only one what you 'd call a first-rate hotel in
the town; it was kept by a certain Dan Heron, the man that made
Bunkumville, who built Briggs Block and the Apollonicon. I knew him.'
Yes, sir, I think I hear you sayin' it.”
“I half suspect you are mistaken, my friend,” said Layton, peevishly. “I
live in the hope never to hear the name of this place again, as
assuredly I am determined never to speak of it.”
“Well, you Britishers can't help envy, that's a fact,” said Heron, with
a sigh that showed how deeply he felt this unhappy infirmity. “Take a
glass of something to warm you, and let's be movin'. I'll see you safe
through the town.”
Layton thankfully accepted his guidance, and, each taking a share of the
luggage, they set forth into the street. Night was now fast falling, and
they could move along without any danger of detection; but, besides
this, there were few abroad, the unaccustomed attraction of the lecture-
room having drawn nearly all in that direction. Little heeding the
remarks by which Heron beguiled the way, Layton moved on, only occupied
with the thought of how soon he would be miles away from this unloved
spot, when his companion suddenly arrested his attention by grasping his
arm, as he said, “There; did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” asked Layton, impatiently.
“The cheerin', the shoutin'! That's for old Poll. It's the joy of our
folk to see the old boy once more about. It would be well for some of
our public men if they were half as popular in their own States as he is
with the people down here. There it is again!”
Layton was not exactly in the fit humor to sympathize with this success,
and neither the lecturer nor his audience engaged any large share of his
good-will; he, therefore, merely muttered an impatient wish to get
along, while he quickened his own pace in example.
“Well, I never heerd greater applause than that. They 're at it again!”
A wild burst of uproarious enthusiasm at the same moment burst forth and
filled the air.
“There ain't no mockery there, stranger,” said Heron; “that ain't like
the cheer the slaves in the Old World greet their kings with, while the
police stands by to make a note of the men as has n't yelled loud
enough.” This taunt was wrung from him by the insufferable apathy of
Layton's manner; but even the bitterness of the sneer failed to excite
retort.
“Is this our shortest road?” was all the reply he made.
“No; this will save us something,” said Heron, with the quickness of one
inspired by a sudden thought; and at the same instant he turned into a
narrow street on his left.
They walked briskly along for a few minutes without speaking, when,
suddenly turning the angle of the way, they found themselves directly in
front of the assembly-room, from whose three great doors the light
streamed boldly out across the great square before it. The place seemed
densely thronged, and even on the pillars outside persons were grouped,
anxious at this cheap expedient to participate in the pleasure of the
lecture. By this time all was hushed and quiet, and it was evident by
the rapt attention of the audience that all were eagerly bent on
listening to the words of the speaker.
“Why have we come this way?” asked Layton, peevishly.
“Jest that you might see that sight yonder, sir,” said Heron, calmly;
“that you might carry away with you the recollection of a set of hard-
worked, horny-handed men, laborin' like Turks for a livin', and yet
ready and willin' to give out of their hard earnin's to listen to one
able to instruct or improve 'em. That's why you come this way, stranger.
Ain't the reason a good one?”
Layton did not reply, but stood watching with deep interest the scene of
silent, rapt attention in the crowded room, from which now not the
slightest sound proceeded. Drawn by an attraction he could not explain,
he slowly mounted the steps and gained a place near the door, but from
which he was unable to catch sight of the lecturer. He was speaking;
but, partly from the distance, and in part from the low tones of his
voice, Layton could not hear his words. Eager to learn by what sort of
appeal an audience like this could be addressed,--curious to mark the
tone by which success was achieved,--he pushed vigorously onward till he
reached one of the columns that supported the roof of the hall, and
which, acting as a conductor, conveyed every syllable to his ears. The
lecturer's voice, artificially raised to reach the limits of the room,
was yet full, strong, and sonorous, and it was managed with all the
skill of a practised speaker. He had opened his address by mentioning
the circumstances which had then brought him before them. He explained
that but from an adverse incident--a passing indisposition--they were on
that night to have heard one of those accomplished speakers who had won
fame and honor in the old country. There was a reserve and delicacy in
the mention of the circumstances by which he became the substitute for
this person that struck Layton forcibly; he was neither prepared for the
sentiment nor the style of the orator; but, besides, there was in the
utterance of certain words, and in an occasional cadence, something that
made his heart beat quicker, and sent a strange thrill through him.
The explanation over, there was a pause,--a pause of silence so perfect
that as the speaker laid down the glass of water he had been drinking,
the sound was heard throughout the room. He now began, his voice low,
his words measured, his manner subdued. Layton could not follow him
throughout, but only catch enough to perceive that he was giving a short
sketch of the relative conditions of England and Ireland antecedent to
the Union. He pictured the one, great, rich, powerful, and intolerant,
with all the conscious pride of its own strength, and the immeasurable
contempt for whatever differed from it; the other, bold, daring, and
defiant, not at all aware of its inability to cope with its more
powerful neighbor in mere force, but reposing an unbounded trust in its
superior quickness, its readiness of resource, its fertility of
invention. He dwelt considerably on those Celtic traits by which he
claimed for Irishmen a superiority in all those casualties of life which
demand promptitude and ready-wittedness.
“The gentleman who was to have occupied this chair tonight,” said he,
raising his voice, so as to be heard throughout the room, “would, I
doubt not, have given you a very different portrait, and delivered a
very different judgment. You would at this moment have been listening to
a description of that great old country we are all so proud of,
endeavoring, with all the wise prudence of a careful mother, to train up
a wayward and capricious child in the paths of virtue and obedience. But
you will bear more patiently with me; you will lend me a more favorable
hearing and a kindlier sympathy, for America, too, was a runaway
daughter, and though it was only a Gretna Green match you first made
with Freedom, you have lived to see the marriage solemnized in all form,
and acknowledged by the whole world.”
When the cheer which greeted these words had subsided, he went on to
glance at what might possibly have been the theme of the other lecturer:
“I am told,” said he,--“for I never saw him,--that he was a young, a
very young man. But to speak of the scenes to which I am coming, it is
not enough to have read, studied, and reflected. A man should have done
more; he ought to have seen, heard, and acted. These confessions are
bought dearly, for it is at the price of old age I can make them; but is
it not worth old age to have heard Burke in all the majestic grandeur of
his great powers,--to have listened to the scathing whirlwind of
Grattan's passion,--to have sat beneath the gallery when Flood denounced
him, and that terrible duel of intellect took place, far more moving
than the pistol encounter that followed it? Ay, I knew them all! I have
jested with Parsons, laughed with Toler, laughed and wept both with poor
Curran. You may find it difficult to believe that he who now addresses
you should ever have moved in the class to which such men pertained. You
here, whose course of life, sustained by untiring toil and animated by a
spirit of resolute courage, moves ever upward, who are better to-day
than yesterday, and will to-morrow be farther on the road than to-day,
who labor the soil of which your grandchildren will be the proud
possessors, may have some difficulty in tracing a career of continued
descent, and will be slow to imagine how a man could fall from a station
of respectability and regard, and be--such as I am!”
Just as the speaker had uttered these words, a cry, so wild and piercing
as to thrill through every heart, resounded through the building; the
great mass of men seemed to heave and swell like the sea in a storm. It
was one of those marvellous moments in which human emotions seem
whispered from breast to breast, and men are moved by a strange flood of
sympathy; and now the crowd opened, like a cleft wave, to give passage
to a young man, who with a strength that seemed supernatural forced his
way to the front. There was that in his wild, excited look that almost
bespoke insanity, while he struggled to effect his passage.
Astonished by the scene of commotion in front of him, and unable to
divine its cause, the lecturer haughtily asked, “Who comes here to
disturb the order of this meeting?” The answer was quickly rendered, as,
springing over the rail that fenced the stage, Alfred cried out, “My
father! my father!” and, throwing his arms around him, pressed him to
his heart. As for the old man, he stood stunned and speechless for a
moment, and then burst into tears.
CHAPTER XLV. OF BYGONES
Were we at the outset instead of the close of our journey, we could not
help dwelling on the scene the lecture-room presented as the discovery
became whispered throughout the crowd. Our goal is, however, now almost
in sight, and we must not tarry. We will but record one thought, as we
say that they who were accustomed to associate the idea of fine
sympathies with fine clothes and elegance of manner, would have been
astonished at the instinctive delicacy and good breeding of that dense
mass of men. Many were disappointed at the abrupt conclusion of a great
enjoyment, nearly all were moved by intense curiosity to know the
history of those so strangely brought together again, and yet not one
murmured a complaint, not one obtruded a question; but with a few words
of kindly greeting, a good wish, or a blessing, they stole quietly away
and left the spot.
Seated side by side in a room of the inn, old Layton and his son
remained till nigh daybreak. How much had they to ask and answer of each
other! Amidst the flood of questions poured forth, anything like
narrative made but sorry progress; but at length Alfred came to hear how
his father had been duped by a pretended friend, cheated out of his
discovery, robbed of his hard-won success, and then denounced as an
impostor.
“This made me violent, and then they called me mad. A little more of
such persecution and their words might have come true.
“I scarcely yet know to what I am indebted for my liberation. I was a
patient in Swift's Hospital, when one day came the Viceroy to visit it,
and with him came a man I had met before in society, but not over
amicably, nor with such memories as could gratify. 'Who is this?' cried
he, as he saw me at work in the garden. 'I think I remember his face.'
The keeper whispered something, and he replied, 'Ah! indeed!' while he
drew near where I was digging. 'What do you grow here?' asked he of me,
in a half-careless tone. 'Madder,' shouted I, with a yell that made him
start; and then, recovering himself, he hastened off to report the
answer to the Viceroy.
“They both came soon after to where I was. The Viceroy, with that
incaution which makes some people talk before the insane as though they
were deaf, said, in my hearing, 'And so you tell me he was once a Fellow
of Trinity?' 'Yes, my Lord,' said I, assuming the reply, 'a Regius
Professor and a Medallist, now a Madman and a Pauper. The converse is
the gentleman at your side. _He_ began as a fool, and has ended as a
Poor Law Commissioner!' They both turned away, but I cried out, 'Mr.
Ogden, one word with you before you go.' He came back. 'I have been
placed here,' said I, 'at the instance of a man who has robbed me. I am
not mad, but I am friendless. The name of my persecutor is Holmes. He
writes himself Captain Nicholas Holmes--'
“He would not hear another word, but hurried away without answering me.
I know no more than that I was released ten days after,--that I was
turned out in the streets to starve or rob. My first thought was to find
out this man Holmes. To meet and charge him with his conduct towards me,
in some public place, would have been a high vengeance; but I sought him
for weeks in vain, and at last learned he had gone abroad.
“How I lived all that time I cannot tell you; it is all to me now like a
long and terrible dream. I was constantly in the hands of the police,
and rarely a day passed that I had not some angry altercation with the
authorities. I was in one of these one morning, when, half stupefied
with cold and want, I refused to answer further. The magistrate asked,
'Has he any friends? Is there no one who takes any interest in him?' The
constable answered, 'None, your worship; and it is all the better, he
would only heap disgrace on them!'
“It was then, for the first moment of my life, the full measure of all I
had become stood plainly before me. In those few words lay the sentence
passed upon my character. From that hour forth I determined never to
utter my name again. I kept this pledge faithfully, nor was it
difficult; few questioned, none cared for me. I lived--if that be the
word for it--in various ways. I compounded drugs for chemists, corrected
the press for printers, hawked tracts, made auction catalogues, and at
last turned pyrotechnist to a kind of Vauxhall, all the while writing
letters home with small remittances to your mother, who had died when I
was in the madhouse. In a brief interval of leisure I went down to the
North, to learn what I might of her last moments, and to see where they
had laid her. There was a clergyman there who had been kind and
hospitable towards me in better days, and it was to his house I
repaired.”
He paused, and for some minutes was silent. At length he said,--
“It is strange, but there are certain passages in my life, not very
remarkable in themselves, that remain distinct and marked out, just as
one sees certain portions of landscape by the glare of lightning flashes
in a thunderstorm, and never forgets them after. Such was my meeting
with this Mr. Millar. He was distributing bread to the poor, with the
assistance of his clerk, on the morning that I came to his door. The
act, charitable and good in itself, he endeavored to render more
profitable by some timely words of caution and advice; he counselled
gratitude towards those who bestowed these bounties, and thrift in their
use. Like all men who have never known want themselves, he denied that
it ever came save through improvidence. He seemed to like the theme, and
dwelt on it with pleasure, the more as the poor sycophants who received
his alms eagerly echoed back concurrence in all that he spoke
disparagingly of themselves. I waited eagerly till he came to a pause,
and then I spoke.
“'Now,' said I, 'let us reverse this medal, and read it on the other
side. Though as poor and wretched as any of those about, I have not
partaken of your bounty, and I have the right to tell you that your
words are untrue, your teaching unsound, and your theory a falsehood. To
men like us, houseless, homeless, and friendless, you may as well preach
good breeding and decorous manners, as talk of providence and thrift.
Want is a disease; it attacks the poor, whose constitutions are exposed
to it; and to lecture us against its inroads is like cautioning us
against cold, by saying “Take care to wear strong boots,--mind that you
take your greatcoat,--be sure that you do not expose yourself to the
night air.” You would be shocked, would you not, to address such
sarcastic counsels to such poor, barefoot, ragged creatures as we are?
And yet you are not shocked by enjoining things fifty times more absurd,
five hundred times more difficult. Thrift is the inhabitant of warm
homesteads, where the abundant meal is spread upon the board and the
fire blazes on the hearth. It never lives in the hovel, where the
snowdrift lodges in the chimney and the rain beats upon the bed of
straw!'
“'Who is this fellow?' cried the Rector, outraged at being thus replied
to. 'Where did he come from?'
“'From a life of struggle and hardship,' said I, 'that if _you_ had been
exposed to and confronted with, you had died of starvation, despite all
your wise saws on thrift and providence.'
“'Gracious mercy!' muttered he, 'can this be--' and then he stopped; and
beckoning me to follow him into an inner room, he retired.
“'Do I speak to Dr. Layton?' asked he, curtly, when we were alone.
“'I was that man,' said I. 'I am nothing now.'
“'By what unhappy causes have you come to this?'
“'The lack of that same thrift you were so eloquent about, perhaps. I
was one of those who could write, speak, invent, and discover; but I was
never admitted a brother of the guild of those who save. The world,
however, has always its compensations, and I met thrifty men. Some of
them stole my writings, and some filched my discoveries. They have
prospered, and live to illustrate your pleasant theory. But I have not
come here to make my confessions; I would learn of you certain things
about what was once my home.'
“He was most kind,--he would have been more than kind to me had I let
him; but I would accept of nothing. 'I did not even break bread under
his roof, though I had fasted for a day and a half. He had a few objects
left with him to give me, which I took,--the old pocket-book one of
them,--and then I went away.”
The old man's narrative was henceforth one long series of struggles with
fortune. He concealed none of those faults by which he had so often
wrecked his better life. Hating and despising the companionship to which
his reduced condition had brought him, he professed to believe there was
less degradation in drunkenness than in such association. Through all he
said, in fact, there was the old defiant spirit of early days, a
scornful rejection of all assistance, and even, in failure and misery, a
self-reliance that seemed invincible. He had come to America by the
invitation of a theatrical manager, who had failed, leaving him in the
direst necessity and want.
The dawn of day found him still telling of his wayward life, its
sorrows, its struggles, and defeats.
CHAPTER XLVI. THE DOCTOR'S NARRATIVE
Old Layton never questioned his son whither they were going, or for
what, till the third day of their journeying together. Such, indeed, was
the preoccupation of his mind, that he travelled along unmindful of new
places and new people, all his thoughts deeply engaged by one single
theme. Brief as this interval was, what a change had it worked in his
appearance! Instead of the wild and haggard look his features used to
wear, their expression was calm, somewhat stern, perhaps, and such as
might have reminded one who had seen him in youth of the Herbert Layton
of his college days. He had grown more silent, too, and there was in his
manner the same trait of haughty reserve which once distinguished him.
His habits of intemperance were abandoned at once, and without the
slightest reference to motive or intention he gave his son to see that
he had entered on a new course in life.
“Have you told me where we are going, Alfred, and have I forgotten it?”
said he, on the third day of the journey.
“No, father; so many other things occurred to us to talk over that I
never thought of this. It is time, however, I should tell you. We are
going to meet one who would rather make your acquaintance than be the
guest of a king.”
The old man smiled with a sort of cold incredulity, and his son went on
to recount how, in collecting the stray papers and journals of the
“Doctor,” as they styled him between them, this stranger had come to
conceive the greatest admiration for his bold energy of temperament and
the superior range of his intellect. The egotism, so long dormant in
that degraded nature, revived and warmed up as the youth spoke, and he
listened with proud delight at the story of all the American's devotion
to him.
“He is a man of science, then, Alfred?”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“He is, at least, one of those quick-minded fellows who in this stirring
country adapt to their purpose discoveries they have had no share in
making; is he not?”
“Scarcely even that. He is a man of ordinary faculties, many prejudices,
but of a manly honesty of heart I have never seen surpassed.”
“Then he is poor,” said the old man, sarcastically.
“I know little of his circumstances, but I believe they are ample.”
“Take my word for it, boy, they are not,” said the other, with a bitter
smile. “Fortune is a thrifty goddess, and where she bestows a generous
nature she takes care it shall have nothing to give away.”
“I trust your precept will not apply to this case, at all events. I have
been his pensioner for nigh a year back: I am so still. I had hoped,
indeed, by this project of lecturing--”
“Nay, nay, boy, no success could come of that. Had you been a great name
in your own country, and come here heralded by honors won already, they
would have given you a fair hearing and a generous recompense, but they
will not take as money the unstamped metal; they will not stoop to
accept what the old country sends forth without acknowledgment, as good
enough for _them_. Believe me, this race is prouder than our own, and it
is not by unworthy sneers at them that we shall make them less
vainglorious.”
“I scarcely know them, but for the sake of that one man I owe them a
deep affection,” said Alfred, warmly.
“I have a scheme for you,” said the old man, after a pause; “but we will
talk of it later on. For the present, I want you to aid me in a plan of
my own. Ever since I have been in this country I have endeavored to find
out a person whose name alone was known to me, and with whom I gave a
solemn promise to communicate,--a death-bed promise it was, and given
under no common circumstances. The facts were these:--
“I was once upon a time, when practising as a physician at Jersey, sent
for to attend a patient taken suddenly and dangerously ill. The case was
a most embarrassing one. There were symptoms so incongruous as to reject
the notion of any ordinary disease, and such as might well suggest the
suspicion of poisoning, and yet so skilfully and even patiently had the
scheme been matured, the detection of the poison during life was very
difficult. My eagerness in the inquiry was mistaken by the patient for a
feeling of personal kindness towards himself,--an error very familiar to
all medical men in practice. He saw in my unremitting attention and
hourly watching by his bedside the devotion of one like an old friend,
and not the scientific ardor of a student.
“It is just possible that his gratitude was the greater, that the man
was one little likely to conciliate good feeling or draw any sympathy
towards him. He was a hard, cold, selfish fellow, whose life had been
passed amongst the worst classes of play-men, and who rejected utterly
all thought of truth or confidence in his old associates. I mention this
to show how, in a very few days, the accident of my situation
established between us a freedom and a frankness that savored of long
acquaintance.
“In his conversations with me he confessed that his wife had been
divorced from a former husband, and, from circumstances known to him, he
believed she desired his death. He told me of the men to whom in
particular his suspicions attached, and the reasons of the suspicions;
that these men would be irretrievably ruined if his speculations on the
turf were to succeed, and that there was not one of them would not peril
his life to get sight of his book on the coming Derby. I was curious to
ascertain why he should have surrounded himself with men so obviously
his enemies, and he owned it was an act prompted by a sort of dogged
courage, to show them that he did not fear them. Nor was this the only
motive, as he let out by an inadvertence; he cherished the hope of
detecting an intrigue between one of his guests and his wife, as the
means of liberating himself from a tie long distasteful to him.
“One of the party had associated himself with him in this project, and
promised him all his assistance. Here was a web of guilt and treachery,
entangled enough to engage a deep interest! For the man himself, I cared
nothing; there was in his nature that element of low selfishness that is
fatal to all sense of sympathy. His thoughts and speculations ranged
only over suspicions and distrusts, and the only hopes he ever expressed
were for the punishment of his enemies. Scarcely, indeed, did a visit
pass in which he did not compel me to repeat a solemn oath that the mode
of his death should be explored, and his poisoners--if there were such--
be brought to trial. As he drew nigh his last, his sufferings gave
little intervals of rest, and his mind occasionally wandered. Even in
his ravings, however, revenge never left him, and he would break out
into wild rhapsodies in imitation of the details of justice, calling on
the prisoners, and by name, to say whether they would plead guilty or
not; asking them to stand forward, and then reciting with hurried
impetuosity the terms of an indictment for murder. To these there would
succeed a brief space of calm reason, in which he told me that his
daughter--a child by a former wife--was amply provided for, and that her
fortune was so far out of the reach of his enemies that it lay in
America, where her uncle, her guardian, resided. He gave me his name and
address, and in my pocket-book--this old and much-used pocket-book that
you see--he wrote a few tremulous lines, accrediting me to this
gentleman as the one sole friend beside him in his last struggles. As he
closed the book, he said, 'As you hope to die in peace, swear to me not
to neglect this, nor leave my poor child a beggar.' And I swore it.
“His death took place that night; the inquest followed on the day after.
My suspicions were correct; he had died of corrosive sublimate; the
quantity would have killed a dozen men. There was a trial and a
conviction. One of them, I know, was executed, and, if I remember
aright, sentence of transportation passed on another. The woman,
however, was not implicated, and her reputed lover escaped. My evidence
was so conclusive and so fatal that the prisoners' counsel had no other
resource than to damage my credit by assailing my character, and in his
cross-examination of me he drew forth such details of my former life,
and the vicissitudes of my existence, that I left the witness-table a
ruined man. It was not a very difficult task to represent a life of
poverty as one of ignominy and shame. The next day my acquaintances
passed without recognizing me, and from that hour forth none ever
consulted me. In my indignation at this injustice I connected all who
could have in any way contributed to my misfortune, and this poor orphan
child amongst the rest. Had I never been engaged in that ill-starred
case, my prospects in life had been reasonably fair and hopeful. I was
in sufficient practice, increasing in repute, and likely to succeed,
when this calamitous affair crossed me.
“Patience under unmerited suffering was never amongst my virtues, and in
various ways I assailed those who had attacked me. I ridiculed the
lawyer who had conducted the defence, sneered at his law, exposed his
ignorance of chemistry, and, carried away by that fatal ardor of
acrimony I never knew how to restrain, I more than suggested that, when
he appealed to Heaven in the assertion of his client's innocence, he
held in his possession a written confession of his guilt. For this an
action of libel was brought against me; the damages were assessed at
five hundred pounds, and I spent four years in a jail to acquit the
debt. Judge, then, with what memories I ever referred to that event of
my life. It was, perhaps, the one solitary incident in which I had
resisted a strong temptation. I was offered a large bribe to fail in my
analysis, and yet it cost me all the prosperity it had taken years of
labor to accomplish!
“Imprisonment had not cooled my passion. The first thing which I did
when free was to dramatize the trial for one of those low pot-houses
where Judge and Jury scenes are represented; and so accurately did I
caricature my enemy, the counsel, that he was actually laughed out of
court and ruined. If I could have traced the other actors in the
terrible incident, I would have pursued them with like rancor; but I
could not: they had left England, and gone Heaven knows where or how! As
to the orphan girl, whose interest I had sworn to watch over, any care
for her now would only have insulted my own misery; my rage was blind
and undiscriminating, and I would not be guided by reason. It was,
therefore, in a spirit of unreflecting vengeance that I never took any
steps regarding her, but preserved, even to this hour, a letter to her
guardian,--it is there, in that pocket-book,--which might perhaps have
vindicated her right to wealth and fortune. 'No,' thought I, 'they have
been _my_ ruin; I will not be the benefactor of one of them!'
“I kept my word; and even when my own personal distresses were greatest,
I would not have raised myself out of want at the price of relinquishing
that revenge. I have lived to think and feel more wisely,” said he,
after a pause; “I have lived to learn the great lesson that every mishap
of my life was of my own procuring, and that self-indulgence and a
vindictive spirit are enough to counterbalance tenfold more than all the
abilities I ever possessed. The world will no more confide its interests
to men like me than they will take a tiger for a house-dog. I want to
make some reparation for this wrong, Alfred. I want to seek out this
person I have spoken of, and, if this girl still live, to place her in
possession of her own. You will help me in this, will you not?”
It was not without a burning impatience that young Layton had listened
to his father's narrative; he was eager to tell him that his friend the
Colonel had already addressed himself to the enterprise, all his
interests being engaged by the journals and letters he had collected
when in Ireland. Alfred now, in a few hurried words, related all this,
and told how, at that very hour, Quackinboss was eagerly prosecuting the
inquiry. “He has gone down to Norfolk in search of this Winthrop,” said
he.
“He will not find him there,” said old Layton. “He left Norfolk, for the
Far West, two years back. He settled at Chicago, but he has not remained
there. So much I have learned, and it is all that is known about him.”
“Let us go to Chicago, then,” said Alfred.
“It is what I would advise. He is a man of sufficient note and mark to
be easily traced. It is a well-known name, and belongs to a family much
looked up to. These are my credentials, if I should ever chance to come
up with him.”
As he spoke, he unclasped a very old and much-worn leather pocket-book,
searching through whose pages he at last found what he sought for. It
was a leaf, scrawled over in a trembling manner, and ran thus: “Consult
the bearer of this, Dr. Layton, about Clara; he is my only friend at
this dreadful hour, and he is to be trusted in all things. Watch well
that they who have murdered _me_ do not rob _her_. He will tell you--”
It concluded thus abruptly, but was signed firmly, “Godfrey Hawke, Nest,
Jersey,” with the date; and underneath, “To Harvey Winthrop, Norfolk, D.
S.”
“This would be a meagre letter of credit, Alfred, to most men; but I
have heard much of this same Winthrop. All represent him as a fine-
hearted, generous fellow, who has done already much to trace out his
niece, and restore to her what she owns. If we succeed in discovering
him, I mean to offer my services to search out the girl. I saw, a short
time before I left England, one of the men who were implicated in the
murder. I knew him at once. The threat of reviving the old story of
shame will soon place him in my power, if I can but find him; and
through _him_ I am confident we shall trace _her_.”
To understand the ardor with which the old man entered upon this
inquiry, one must have known the natures of those men to whom the
interest of such a search has all the captivation of a game. It was, to
his thinking, like some case of subtle analysis, in which the existence
of a certain ingredient was to be tested; it was a problem requiring all
his acuteness to solve, and he addressed himself to the task with energy
and zeal. The young man was not slow to associate himself in the
enterprise; and in his desire for success there mingled generous
thoughts and more kindly sympathies, which assuredly did not detract
from the interest of the pursuit.
The theme engrossed all their thoughts; they discussed it in every
fashion, speculated on it in every shape, pictured to themselves almost
every incident and every stage of the inquiry, imagining the various
obstacles that might arise, and planning how to overcome them. Thus
journeying they arrived at Chicago, but only to learn that Winthrop had
left that city, and was now established farther to the westward, at a
place called Gallina. Without halting or delay they started for Gallina.
The road was a new and a bad one, the horses indifferent, and the stages
unusually long. It was on the fourth evening of the journey that they
arrived at a small log-house on the skirt of a pine wood, at which they
were given to expect fresh horses. They were disappointed, however, for
the horses had already been sent to bring up two travellers from
Gallina, and who had taken the precaution of securing a rapid transit.
“We are here, then, for the night,” said old Layton, with a faint sigh,
as he endeavored to resign himself to the delay.
“Here they come!” said the host of the log-hut, as the rattle of a heavy
wagon was heard from the dense wood. “Our sheriff don't let the moss
grow under his feet. Listen to the pace he 's coming.”
Seated, with his son beside him, on the wooden bench before the door,
the old man watched the arrival of the newcomers. The first to descend
from the wagon was a man somewhat advanced in life, but hale and stout,
with a well-bronzed face, and every semblance of a vigorous health. He
saluted the host cordially, and was received with a sort of deference
only accorded to men of official station. He was followed by a younger
man, but who displayed, as he moved, evident signs of being fatigued by
the journey.
“Come, Seth,” said the elder, “let us see what you have got for our
supper, for we must be a-moving briskly.”
“Well, sheriff, there ain't much,” said the host; “and what there is you
'll have to share with the two gentlemen yonder; they've just come East,
and are waitin' for you to get a morsel to eat.”
“Always glad to chance on good company,” said the sheriff, saluting the
strangers as he spoke; and while they were interchanging their
greetings, the host laid the table, and made preparation for the meal.
“I must look after my fellow-traveller,” said the sheriff; “he seems so
tired and jaded. I half fear he will be unable to go on to-night.”
He speedily returned with good tidings of his friend, and soon
afterwards the party took their places at the supper-table.
The sheriff, like his countrymen generally, was frank and outspoken; he
talked freely of the new-settled country, its advantages and its
difficulties, and at last, as the night closed in, he made another visit
to his friend.
“All right, Seth,” said he, as he came back; “we shall be able to push
on. Let them 'hitch' the nags as soon as may be, for we 've a long
journey before us.”
“You're for the Lakes, I reckon?” said Seth, inquiringly.
“Farther than that.”
“Up to Saratoga and the Springs, maybe?”
“Farther still.”
“Well, you ain't a-goin' to New York at this time of year, sheriff?”
“That am I, and farther still, Seth; I am going to the old country,
where I have n't been for more than thirty years, and where I never
thought to go again.”
“You might visit worse lands, sir,” said old Layton, half resentfully.
“You mistook my meaning, stranger,” said the other, “if you thought my
words reflected on England. There is only one land I love better.”
The honest speech reconciled them at once, and with a hearty shake-hands
and a kindly wished good journey, they separated.
“Did you remark that man who accompanied the sheriff?” said Layton to
his son, as they stood at the door watching the wagon while it drove
away.
“Not particularly,” said Alfred.
“Well, I did my best to catch sight of him, but I could not. It struck
me that he was less an invalid than one who wanted to escape
observation; he wore his hat slouched over his eyes, and covered his
mouth with his hand when he spoke.”
The young man only smiled at what he deemed a mere caprice of suspicion,
and the subject dropped between them. After a while, however, the father
said,--
“What our host has just told me strengthens my impression. The supposed
sick man ate a hearty supper, and drank two glasses of stiff brandy-and-
water.'
“And if he did, can it concern us, father?” said Alfred, smiling.
“Yes, boy, if we were the cause of the sudden indisposition. He was
tired, perhaps, when he arrived, but I saw no signs of more than fatigue
in his movements, and I observed that, at the first glance towards us,
he hurried into the inner room and never reappeared till he left. I 'm
not by any means certain that the fellow had not his reasons for
avoiding us.”
Rather treating this as the fancy of one whose mind had been long the
prey of harassing distrusts than as founded on calmer reason, Alfred
made no answer, and they separated for the night without recurring to
the subject.
It was late on the following day they reached Gallina. The first
question was, if Harvey Winthrop lived there? “Yes; he is our sheriff,”
was the answer. They both started, and exchanged looks of strange
meaning.
“And he left this yesterday?” asked old Layton.
“Yes, sir. An Englishman came two days back with some startling news for
him,--some say of a great fortune left him somewhere,--and he's off to
England to make out his claim.”
Old Layton and his son stood speechless and disconcerted. These were the
two travellers who had passed them at the log-hut, and thus had they
spent some hours, without knowing it, in the company of him they had
been travelling hundreds of miles to discover.
“And his friend knew us, and avoided us, Alfred,” said old Layton. “Mark
that fact, boy, and observe that, where there is ground for fear in one
heart, there is reason for hope in some other. We must follow them at
once.”
CHAPTER XLVII. A HAPPY ACCIDENT
Having written a hurried letter to Quackinboss acquainting him with the
causes which should prevent him from keeping his rendezvous at St.
Louis, and informing him how he had met with his father, he briefly
mentioned that they were about to return to New York with all speed, in
the hope of coming up with Winthrop before he sailed for England. “Come
what may,” he added, “we shall await you there. We long to meet you, and
add your counsels to our own.” This letter he addressed to St Louis, and
posted at once.
It was ten days after this they reached New York. Their journey had been
delayed by a series of accidents,--a railroad smash at Detroit amongst
the number; and when they arrived at the capital, it was to learn that
the “Asia” had sailed that very morning for Liverpool, and at the
agent's office they found that Mr. Harvey Winthrop was a passenger, and
with him a certain Mr. Jacob Trover.
“Trover!” repeated Alfred, “he came out in the same ship with us, and it
was in his company Quackinboss went down to the South, fully convinced
that the man was the agent in some secret transaction.”
As he stood looking at the name on the agent's list with that
unreasoning steadfastness that in a difficulty often attaches us to the
incident which has first awakened us to a sense of embarrassment, he
heard a well-remembered voice behind him exclaim, “What! sailed this
mornin'? Well, darn me considerable, if that ain't takin' the ropes of
us!” He turned, and it was Quackinboss. After the heartiest of greetings
on both sides, Alfred presented his father to his friend.
“Well, sir,” said the Colonel, impressively, “there ain't that man
livin' I want to shake the hand of as I do yours. I know you, sir,
better, mayhap, than that youth beside you. I have studied your
character in your writin's, and I 'm here to say there ain't your
superior, if there be your equal, in your country or mine.”
“This opinion will make our intimacy very difficult,” said the old man,
smiling. “I can scarcely hope to keep up the delusion, even for twenty-
four hours.”
“Yes, sir, you can,” replied the Colonel; “jest talk the way you write.”
“You have seen this, I suppose?” said Alfred, pointing to the list of
the lately departed passengers, and desirous of engaging his friend in
another theme.
“Yes, and gone with Winthrop too,” said the Colonel. “You would n't
believe how he doubled on me, that man Trover. I thought I had him too.
We were a-travellin' together as thick as thieves, a-tellin' each other
all our bygones in life and our plans for the future, and at last as
good as agreed we 'd go partners in a mill that was for sale, about
three miles from Carthage. But he wanted to see the water-power himself,
and so we left the high-road, and set out to visit it. At our arrival,
as we was gettin' out of the wagon, he sprained his ankle, and had to be
helped into the house.
“'I am afraid,' said he, 'there's more mischief than a sprain here; have
you any skill as a surgeon?'
“'Well,' said I, 'I ain't so bad about a fracture or dislocashin, and,
what's better, I 've got a note-book with me full of all manner of
receipts for washes and the like.' It was your journal, Dr. Layton, that
I spoke of. It was, as you may remember, filled with hints about useful
herbs and odd roots, and so on, and there was all about that case of a
man called Hawke as was poisoned at Jersey,--a wonderful trial that had
a great hold upon me, as your son will tell you another time,--but I did
n't think of _that_ at the moment; but turnin' to the part about
sprains, I began to read him what you said: '“You must generally leech
at first,” says he,' I began; '“particularly where there is great pain
with swellin'.”'
“'Ah! I thought so,' sighed he; 'only how are we to get leeches in a
place like this, and who is to apply them?'
“'I 'll engage to do both within half an hour.' said I; and I put on my
hat and set out.
“Now, I war n't sorry, you see, for the accident. I thought to myself,
'Here's a crittur goin' to be laid up ten days or a fortnight; I'll have
all the care o' him, and it's strange if he won't let out some of his
secrets between whiles. I 'm curious to know what's a-brought him out
here; he's not travellin' like one afraid of being pursued; he goes
about openly and fearlessly, but he's always on the sharp, like a fellow
that had somethin' on his mind, if one could only come at it. If there's
anythin' one can be sure of, it is that a man with a heavy conscience
will try to relieve himself of the load; he's like a fellow always
changin' the ballast of his boat to make her sail lighter, or a crittur
that will be a-movin' his saddle, now on the withers, now on the croup,
but it won't do, never a bit, when there's a sore back underneath.' It
was reflectin' over these things I fell into a sort of dreamy way, and
did n't remember about the leeches for some time. At last I got 'em, and
hastened back to the inn.
“'There's a note for you, sir, at the bar,' said the landlord. I took
it, and read:--
“'Dear Colonel,--Thinking a little fresh air might serve me, I have gone
out for a short drive.--Yours, till we meet again,
“'J. T.'
“Yes, sir, he was off; and worse, too, had carried away with him that
great book with all the writin' in, and that account of Hawke's poison
in'. I started in pursuit as quick as they could get me a wagon hitched,
but I suppose I took the wrong road. I went to Utica, and then turned
north as far as Albany, but I lost him. Better, perhaps, that I did so;
I was riled considerable, and I ain't sure that I mightn't have done
somethin' to be sorry for. Ain't it wonderful how ill one takes anythin'
that reflects on one's skill and craftiness?--just as if such qualities
were great ones; I believe, in my heart, we are readier to resent what
insults our supposed cleverness than what is an outrage on our honesty.
Be that as it may, I never came up with him after, nor heard of him,
till I read his name in that sheet.”
“His theft of that book, connected with his companionship with Winthrop,
suggests strongly the thought that his business here is the same as our
own,” said the doctor.
“That's the way I reasoned it too,” said the Colonel.
“It is not impossible, besides, that he had some suspicion of your own
object in this journey. Did the name of Winthrop ever come up in
conversation between you?”
“Yes. I was once describin' my brother's location down in Ohio,--I did
it a purpose to see if he would show any signs of interest about
Peddar's Clearin's and Holt's Acre,--and then I mentioned, as if by
chance, one Harvey Winthrop.
“'Oh, there was a man of that name in Liverpool once,' said he, 'but he
died about two years gone.'
“'Did he?' said I, lookin' him hard.
“'Yes,' said he,--' of a quinsy.'
“It was as good as a play the way we looked at each other arter this. It
was jest a game of chess, and I said, 'Move,' and he said, 'It ain't me
to move,--it's _your_ turn.' And there we was.”
“The fellow was shrewd, then?”
“Yes, sir, arter his fashion.”
“We must follow him, that's certain. They will reach Liverpool by the
10th or 12th. When can we sail from this?”
“There's a packet sails on Wednesday next; that's the earliest.”
“That must do, then. Let them be active as they may, they will scarcely
have had time for much before we are up with them.”
“It's as good as a squirrel-hunt,” said Quackinboss. “I 'm darned if it
don't set one's blood a-bilin' out of sheer excitement. What do you
reckon this chap's arter?”
“He has, perhaps, found out this girl, and got her to make over her
claim to this property; or she may have died, and he has put forward
some one to personate her; or it is not improbable he may have arranged
some marriage with himself, or one of his friends, for her.”
“Then it ain't anythin' about the murder?” asked the Colonel, half
disappointedly.
“Nothing whatever; that case was disposed of years ago. Whatever guilt
may attach to those who escaped, the law cannot recognize now. They were
acquitted, and they are innocent.”
“That may be good law, sir, but it's strange justice. If I owed you a
thousand dollars, and was too poor to pay it, I 'm thinkin' you 'd have
it out of me some fine day when I grew rich enough to discharge the
debt.”
Layton shook his head in dissent at the supposed parallel.
“Ain't we always a-talkin' about the fallibility of our reason and the
imperfection of our judgments? And what business have we, then, to say,
'There, come what will tomorrow of evidence or proof, my mind is made
up, and I 'm determined to know nothin' more than I know now'?”
“What say you to the other side of the question,--that of the man
against whom nothing is proven, but who, out of the mere obscurity that
involves a crime, must live and die a criminal, just because there is no
saying what morning may not bring an accusation against him? As a man
who has had to struggle through a whole life against adverse suspicions,
I protest against the doctrine of not proven! The world is too prone to
think the worst to make such a practice anything short of an
insufferable tyranny.”
With a delicacy he was never deficient in, Quackinboss respected the
personal application, and made no reply.
“Calumny, too,” continued the old man, whose passion was now roused, “is
conducted on the division-of-labor principle. One man contributes so
much, and another adds so much more; some are clever in suggesting the
motive, some indicate the act; others are satisfied with moralizing over
human frailties, and display their skill in showing that the crime was
nothing exceptional, but a mere illustration of the law of original sin.
And all these people, be it borne in mind, are not the bad or the
depraved, but rather persons of reputable lives, safe opinions, and even
good intentions. Only imagine, then, what the weapon becomes when
wielded by the really wicked. I myself was hunted down by honorable
men,--gentlemen all of them, and of great attainments. Has _he_ told you
my story?” said he, pointing to his son.
“Yes, sir; and I only say that it could n't have happened in our country
here.”
“To be sure it could,” retorted the other, quickly; “the only difference
is, that you have made Lynch law an institution, and we practise it as a
social accident.”
Thus chatting, they reached the hotel where they were to lodge till the
packet sailed.
The short interval before their departure passed off agreeably to all.
Quackinboss never wearied at hearing the doctor talk, and led him on to
speak of America, and what he had seen of the people, with an intense
interest.
“Could you live here, sir?” asked Quackinboss, at the close of one of
these discussions.
“It is my intention to live and die here,” said the doctor. “I go back
to England now, that this boy may pay off a long load of vengeance for
me. Ay, Alfred, you shall hear my long-cherished plan at once. I want
you to become a fellow of that same University which drove me from its
walls. They were not wrong, perhaps,--at least, I will not now dispute
their right,--but I mean to be more in the right than they were. My name
shall stand upon their records associated with their proudest
achievements, and Layton the scholar, Layton the discoverer, eclipse the
memory of Layton the rebel.”
This was the dream of many a year of struggle, defeat, and depression;
and now that it was avowed, it seemed as though his heart were relieved
of a great load of care. As for Alfred, the goal was one to stimulate
all his energies, and he pledged himself fervently to do his utmost to
attain it.
“And I must be with you the day you win,” cried Quackinboss, with an
enthusiasm so unusual with him that both Layton and his son turned their
glances towards him, and saw that his eyes were glassy with tears.
Ashamed of his emotion, he started suddenly up, saying, “I'll go and
book our berths for Wednesday next.”
CHAPTER XLVIII. AT ROME
Let us now return to some of the actors in our drama who for a while
back have been playing out their parts behind the scenes. The Heathcote
family, consisting of Sir William and his ward, May Leslie, Mrs. Morris
and her late husband's friend, Captain Holmes, were domesticated in a
sumptuous residence near the “Pincian,” but neither going out into the
world nor themselves receiving visitors. Sir William's health, much
broken and uncertain as it was, formed the excuse for this reclusion;
but the real reason was the fact, speedily ascertained by the Captain,
and as speedily conveyed to his daughter, that “Society” had already
decided against them, and voted the English family at the Palazzo Balbi
as disfranchised.
Very curious and very subtle things are the passively understood decrees
of those who in each city of Europe call themselves the “World.” The
delicate shades by which recognition is separated from exclusion; the
fine tints, perceptible only to the eyes of fashion, by which certain
frailties are relieved from being classed with grave derelictions; the
enduring efficacy of the way in which the smell of the roses will cling
to the broken vase of virtue and rescue its fragments from dishonor,--
are all amongst the strangest and most curious secrets of our
civilization.
Were it not for a certain uniformity in the observances, one might be
disposed to stigmatize as capricious the severity occasionally displayed
here, while a merciful lenity was exhibited there; but a closer
examination will show that some fine discriminating sense is ever at
work, capable of distinguishing between genteel vice and the wickedness
that forgets conventionalities. As in law, so in morals, no man need
criminate himself, but he who does so by an inadvertence is lost. Now
the Heathcotes were rich, and yet lived secluded. The world wanted not
another count in the indictment against them. A hundred stories were
circulated about them. They had come to place the “girl” in a convent.
Old Sir William had squandered away all her fortune, and the scheme now
was to induce her to turn Catholic and take the veil. “The old fool”--
the world is complimentary on these occasions--was going to marry that
widow, whom he had picked up at Leamington or Ems or Baden-Baden. If the
Captain had not kept the Hell in the Circus, he was the very double of
the man who had it. At all events, it was better not to have him in the
Club; and so the banker, who was to have proposed, withdrew him.
It may be imagined that some very palpable and sufficient cause was at
work to induce society thus to stand on the defensive towards these new-
comers. Nothing of the kind. All the evidence against them was shadowy;
all the charges such as denied detail. They were an odd set, they lived
in a strange fashion, they knew nobody; and to accusations like these
even spotless integrity must succumb.
Dressed in a _robe de chambre_ that would have made the fortune of a
French Vaudeville actor, with a gold-tasselled fez, and slippers to
match, the Captain sat, smoking a splendid meerschaum, in a well-
cushioned chair, while his daughter was engaged at her embroidery,
opposite to him. Though it was midwinter, the sun streamed in through
the orange-trees on the terrace, and made a rainbow of the spray that
dashed from the marble fountain. The room itself combined all the
sumptuous luxury we understand by the word “comfort,” with the graceful
elegance of a Southern existence. There were flowers and fresh air, and
the song of birds to be enjoyed on the softest of sofas and the best
carpeted of floors.
A large goblet of some amber-colored drink, in which a rock of pure ice
floated, stood at the Captain's elbow, and he sipped and puffed, with
his head thrown well back, in an attitude that to smokers must have some
Elysian ecstasy. Nor was his daughter the least ornamental part of the
situation; a morning dress of white muslin, tastefully trimmed with sky-
blue ribbons, and a rich fall of Brussels lace over her head, making a
very charming picture of the graceful figure that now bent over the
embroidery-frame.
“I tell you it won't do, Loo,” said he, removing his pipe, and speaking
in a firm and almost authoritative voice. “I have been thinking a great
deal over it, and you must positively get away from this.”
“I know that too,” said she, calmly; “and I could have managed it easily
enough but for this promised visit of Charles. He comes through on his
way to Malta, and Sir William would not hear of anything that risked the
chance of seeing him.”
“I 'd rather risk that than run the hazards we daily do in this place,”
said he, gravely.
“You forget, papa, that _he_ knows nothing of these hazards. He is eager
to see his son, for what he naturally thinks may be the last time. I 'm
sure I did my best to prevent the meeting. I wrote to Lord Agincourt; I
wrote to Charles himself. I represented all the peril the agitation
might occasion his father, and how seriously the parting might affect a
constitution so impressionable as his, but to no purpose; he coldly
replies, 'Nothing short of my father's refusal to see me shall prevent
my coming to see him,' or 'embrace him,' or--I forget the words, but the
meaning is, that come he will, and that his arrival may be counted on
before the end of the week.”
“What stay will he make?”
“He speaks of three or four days at farthest. We can learn the limit
easily enough by the time of the P. and O. steamer's sailing. Ask for it
at the banker's.”
“I don't call in there now,” said he, peevishly. “Since they took down
my name for the Club-ballot, I have not gone to the bank.”
She sighed heavily; there was more than one care on her heart, and that
sigh gathered in a whole group of anxieties.
“They have got up all sorts of stories about us; and it is always out of
these false attacks of scandal comes the real assault that storms the
citadel.”
She sighed again, but did not speak.
“So long as Heathcote keeps the house and sees nobody, all may go on
well; but let him be about again, able to ramble amongst the galleries
and churches, he is certain to meet some amiable acquaintance, who will
startle him with a few home truths. I tell you again, we are banqueting
over a powder-magazine; and even as to the marriage itself, I don't like
it. Are you aware of the amount he is able to settle? I couldn't believe
my eyes when I read the draft. It is neither more nor less than eight
thousand pounds. Fancy taking such a husband for eight thousand pounds!”
“You scarcely put the case fairly, papa,” said she, smiling; “the eight
thousand is the compensation for losing him.”
“Are you in love with him, then?” asked he, with a sarcastic twinkle of
the eye.
“I don't think so,--at least, not to desperation.”
“It is scarcely for the sake of being 'My Lady.'”
“Oh dear, no; _that_ is a snobbery quite beyond me. Now, I neither marry
for the title, nor the man, nor his money, nor his station; but out of
that mass of motives which to certain women have the force of a
principle. I can explain what I mean, perhaps, by an illustration: Were
you to tell a fashionable physician, in first-rate practice, that if he
got up out of bed at midnight, and drove off two miles to a certain
corner of Regent's Park, where under a particular stone he 'd find a
guinea, it is more than certain he 'd not stir; but if you sent for the
same man to a case of illness, he'd go unhesitatingly, and accept his
guinea as the due recompense of his trouble. This is duty, or
professional instinct, or something else with a fine name, but it's not
gold-seeking. There now, make out my meaning out of my parable, as best
you may. And, after all, papa, I'm not quite sure that I intend to marry
him.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“Oh, pray don't be frightened. I merely meant to say that there was an
eventuality which might rescue me from this necessity. I have told you
nothing about it hitherto, dear papa, because I inherit your own
wholesome dislike to entertaining my friends with what may turn out mere
moonshine. Now, however, that the project has a certain vitality in it,
you shall hear it.”
Holmes drew his chair close to her, and, laying down his pipe, prepared
to listen with all attention.
“If I hate anything,” said she, half peevishly, “it is to talk of the
bygone, and utter the names of people that I desire never to hear again.
It can't be helped, however; and here goes. After the events in Jersey,
you remember I left the island and came abroad. There were all sorts of
confusion about H.'s affairs. The law had taken possession of his
papers, placed seals on everything, and resisted my application to
remove them, on the vexatious plea that I was not his wife, and could
not administer as such. A long litigation ensued, and at last my
marriage was admitted, and then I took out probate and received a few
thousand pounds, and some little chance property; the bulk of his
fortune was, however, in America, and settled on Clara by a will, which
certain writings showed was in the possession of her uncle, now
nominated to be her guardian, a certain Harvey Winthrop, of Norfolk,
Virginia. I opened a correspondence with him, and suggested the
propriety of leaving Clara with me, as I had always regarded her as my
own child, and hinting at the appropriateness of some allowance for her
maintenance and education. He replied with promptitude and much
kindness, expressed great sympathy for my late loss, and made a very
liberal settlement for Clara.
“All went on peaceably and well for two years, when one morning came a
letter from Winthrop of a most alarming nature. Without any positive
charge, it went on to say that he had, for reasons which his delicacy
would prefer to spare me, decided on himself assuming the guardianship
of his niece, and that if I would kindly come to London, or name any
convenient place on the Continent for our meeting, he would punctually
present himself at the time agreed on. Of course I guessed what had
occurred,--indeed, it had always been a matter of astonishment to me how
long I had been spared; at all events, I determined on resistance. I
wrote back a letter, half sorrow, half indignation; I spoke of the dear
child as all that remained of consolation to my widowed heart; I said
that though it was in his competence to withhold from me the little
pittance which served to relieve some of the pressure of our narrow
means, yet I would not separate myself from my darling child, even
though at the cost of sharing with her a mere sufficiency for support. I
told him, besides, that he should never hear from me more, nor would all
his efforts enable him to trace us. It was then I became Mrs. Penthony
Morris. I suppose Winthrop was sorry for his step; at least, by a
variety of curious advertisements in English papers, he suggested that
some accommodation might be arranged, and entreated me to renew
intercourse with him. There were many reasons why I could not agree to
this. Clara, too, was of great use to me. To a lone woman in the world,
without any definite belongings, a child is invaluable. The
advertisements were continued, and even rewards offered for such
information as might lead to my discovery. All in vain: he never
succeeded in tracing me, and at length gave up the pursuit.
“I must now skip over some years which have no bearing on this incident,
and come to a period comparatively recent, when, in the transaction of
certain purchases of American securities, I came unexpectedly on the
mention of a new railroad line through a district whose name was
familiar to me. I set myself to think where, when, and how I had heard
of this place before, and at last remembered it was from H------, who
used to talk of this property as what would one day make his daughter a
great heiress. My moneyed speculations had led me into much intimacy
here with a banker, Mr. Trover, over whom an accidental discovery gave
me absolute power. It was no less than a forgery he had committed on my
name, and of which, before relinquishing the right to take proceedings
against him, I obtained his full confession in writing. With this tie
over the man, he was my slave; I sent him here and there at my pleasure,
to buy, and sell, and gain information, and so on, and, above all, to
obtain a full account of the value of this American property, where it
lay, and how it was occupied. It was in the midst of these inquiries
came a great financial crash, and my agent was obliged to fly. At first
he went to Malta; he came back, but, after a few weeks, he set out for
the States. He was fully in possession of the circumstances of this
property, and Clara's right to it, and equally so of my determination
that she should never inherit it. We had, on one of the evenings he was
here, a long conversation on the subject, and he cunningly asked me,--
“'How was the property settled in reversion?'
“It was a point I never knew, for I never saw H.'s will.
“'The will was made four years before his death; might he not have made
a later one on his death-bed?--might he not have bequeathed the estate
in reversion to yourself in case she died?--might she not have died?'
“All these he asked, and all of them had been my own unceasing thoughts
for years back. It was a scheme I had planned and brooded over days and
nights long. It was to prepare the road for it that I sent away Clara,
and, under the name of Stocmar, had her inscribed at the Conservatoire
of Milan. Was it that Trover had read my secret thoughts, or had he
merely chanced upon them by mere accident? I did not dare to ask him,
for I felt that by his answer _I_ should be as much in _his_ power as he
was in mine.
“'I have often imagined there might be such a will,' said I; 'there is
no reason to suppose it is not in existence. Could it not be searched
for and found?'
“He understood me at once, and replied,--
“'Have you any of Hawke's handwriting by you?'
“'A quantity,' said I; 'and it is a remarkable hand, very distinctive,
and not hard to imitate,--at least, by any one skilled in such
accomplishments.'
“He blushed a little at the allusion, but laughed it off.
“'The girl could have died last year; she might have been buried,--where
shall we say?' added he, carelessly.
“'At Meisner, in the Tyrol,' said I, catching at the idea that just
struck me, for my maid died in that place, and I had got the regular
certificate of her death and burial from the Syndic, and I showed him
the document.
“'This is admirable,' said he; 'nothing easier than to erase this name
and insert another.'
“'I cannot hear of such a thing, Mr. Trover,' said I; 'nor can I, after
such a proposal, suffer the paper to leave my hands.' And with this I
gave it to him.
“'I could not dream of such an act, madam,' said he, with great
seriousness; 'it would amount to a forgery. Now for one last question,'
said he, after a little interval of silence: 'what would you deem a
suitable reward to the person who should discover this missing will, and
restore this property to the rightful owner? Would twenty per cent on
the value appear to you too much?'
“'I should say that the sum was a high one, but if the individual
acquitted himself with all the integrity and all the delicacy the
situation demanded, never by even an implication involving any one who
trusted him, conducting the transaction to its end on his own
responsibility and by his own unaided devices, why, then, it is more
than probable that I would judge the reward to be insufficient.'
“So much, dear papa, will put you in possession of the treaty then
ratified between us. I was to supply all the funds for present expenses;
Mr. Trover to incur all the perils. He was invested with full powers, in
fact, to qualify himself for Botany Bay; and I promised to forward his
views towards a ticket of leave if the worst were to happen him. It was
a very grave treaty very laughingly and playfully conducted. Trover had
just tact enough for the occasion, and was most jocose wherever the
point was a perilous one. From the letters and papers in my possession,
he found details quite ample enough to give him an insight into the
nature of the property, and also, what he deemed of no small importance,
some knowledge of the character of this Mr. Winthrop, Clara's uncle.
This person appeared to be an easy-tempered, good-natured man, not
difficult to deal with, nor in any way given to suspicion. Trover was
very prompt in his proceedings. On the evening after our conversation he
showed me the draft of Hawke's will, dated at Jersey, about eight days
before his death. It was then, for the first time, I learned that Trover
knew the whole story, and who _I_ was. This rather disconcerted me at
first. There are few things more disconcerting than to find out that a
person who has for a long intercourse never alluded to your past
history, has been all the while fully acquainted with it. The way he
showed his knowledge of the subject was characteristic In pointing out
to me Hawke's signature, he remarked,--
“'I have made the witnesses--Towers, who was executed, and Collier, who,
I have heard, died in Australia.'
“'How familiar you are with these names, sir!' said I, curiously.
“'Yes, madam,' said he; 'I edited a well-known weekly newspaper at that
time, and got some marvellous details from a fellow who was on the
spot.'
“I assure you, papa, though I am not given to tremors, I shuddered at
having for my accomplice a man that I could not deceive as to my past
life. It was to be such an open game between us that, in surrendering
all the advantages of my womanly arts, I felt I was this man's slave,
and yet he was a poor creature. He had the technical craft for
simulating a handwriting and preparing a false document, but was
miserably weak in providing for all the assaults that must be directed
against its authenticity.
“His plan was, armed with what he called an attested copy of H.'s will,
to set out for America and discover this Mr. Winthrop. Cleverly enough,
he had bethought him of securing this gentleman's co-operation by making
him a considerable inheritor under the will. In fact, he charged the
estate with a very handsome sum in his favor, and calculated on all the
advantages of this bribe; and without knowing it, Mr. Winthrop was to be
'one of us.'
“He sailed in due time, but I heard no more of him; and, indeed, I began
to suspect that the two bank-notes I had given him, of one hundred each,
had been very unprofitably invested, when by this day's post a letter
reaches me to say that success had attended him throughout. By a mere
accidental acquaintance on a railroad, he 'fell in' with--that's his
phrase, which may mean that he stole--some very curious documents which
added to his credit with Winthrop. He describes this gentleman as
exactly what he looked for, and with this advantage, that having
latterly been somewhat unfortunate in speculation, he was the more eager
to repair his fortune by the legacy. He says that only one embarrassing
circumstance occurred, and this was that Winthrop determined at once on
coming over to England, so that the authenticity of the will should be
personally ascertained by him, and all his own proceedings in the matter
be made sure. 'For this purpose,' he writes, 'we shall sail from this
place by the first steamer for Liverpool, where let me have a letter
addressed to the Albion to say where you are to be found. Winthrop's
first object will be to meet you, and you must bethink you well what
place you will deem most suitable for this purpose. Of course the more
secluded and private the better. I have explained to him that so
overwhelmed were you by the terrible event of H.'s death you had never
entered the world since; and, in fact, so averse to anything that might
recall the past that you had never administered to the will, nor assumed
any of your rights to property, and it would be well for him, if he
could, to arouse you out of this deadly lethargy, and call you back to
something like existence. This explained why I had taken the journey out
to America to meet him.' You will perceive, papa, that Mr. Trover knows
how to lie 'with the circumstance,' and is not unitarian in his notions
of falsehood.
“I am far from liking this visit of Mr. Winthrop. I wish from my heart
that his scruples had been less nice, and that he had been satisfied to
eat his cake without inquiring whether every one else had got his share;
but, as he is coming, we must make the best of it. And now, what advice
have you to give me? Of course, we cannot suffer him to come here.”
“Certainly not, Loo. We must have out the map, and think it over. Does
Trover tell you what amount the property may be worth?”
“He says that there are three lots. Two have been valued at something
over a million of dollars; the third, if the railroad be carried through
it, will be more valuable still. It is, he says, an immense estate and
in high productiveness. Let us, however, think of our cards, papa, and
not the stake; there is much to provide. I have no certificate of my
marriage with Hawke.”
“That must be thought of,” said he, musingly.
“Clara, too, must be thought of,--married, if possible, to some one
going abroad,--to Australia or New Zealand. Perhaps O'Shea.” And she
burst out a-laughing at the thought.
“Or Paten. I 'd say Ludlow--”
A look of sickly aversion crossed his daughter's face at the suggestion,
and she said,--
“Nothing on earth would induce, me to consent to it.”
The Captain might have regarded this as a woman's weakness, but he said
nothing.
“It will be very difficult for me to get away at this moment too,” said
she, after a pause. “I don't fancy being absent while young Heathcote is
here. He will be making all manner of inquiries about Clara,--where she
is, with whom, and for what? If I were on the spot, I could suppress
such perquisitions.”
“After all, dear Loo, the other is the great event I conclude, if all
goes smoothly about this work, you 'll never dream of the marriage with
Sir William?”
“Perhaps not,” said she, roguishly. “I am not so desperately in love as
to do an imprudence. There is, however, much to be thought of, papa. In
a few days more Ludlow is to be back here with my letters, more than
ever necessary at this moment, when any scandal might be fatal. If he
were to know anything of this accession of fortune, his demands would be
insupportable.”
“No doubt of that. At the same time, if he merely hears that your
marriage with the Baronet is broken off, he will be more tractable. How
are you to obtain these letters?”
“I don't know,” said she, with a stolid look.
“Are you to buy them?”
“I don't know.”
“He will scarcely surrender them out of any impulse of generosity?”
“I don't know,” said she, again; and over her features there was a
sickly pallor that changed all their expression, and made her look even
years older than she was. He looked at her compassionately, for there
was that in her face that might well have challenged pity.
“But, Loo, dearest,” said he, encouragingly, “place the affair in my
hands, and see if I cannot bring it to a good ending.”
“He makes it a condition to treat with none but myself, and there is a
cowardice in this of which he knows all the advantage.”
“It must be a question of money, after all. It is a matter of figures.”
“He would say not. At the very moment of driving his hardest bargain he
would interpose some reference to what he is pleased to call 'his
feelings.' I told him that even Shylock did not insult his victim with a
mock sympathy, nor shed false tears over the pain his knife was about to
inflict.”
“It was not the way to conciliate him, Loo.”
“Conciliate him! Oh, how you know him!” She pressed her hands over her
face as she spoke, and when she withdrew them the cheeks were scalded
with tears.
“Come, come, Loo, this is scarcely like yourself.”
“There, it's over now,” said she, smiling, with a half-sad look, as she
pushed her hair back, as though to suffer the cool air to bathe her
forehead. “Oh dear!” sighed she out, “if I only could have foreseen all
the perils before me, I might have borne with George Ogden, and lived
and died what the world calls respectable.”
He gave a little sigh too, which might have meant that he agreed with
her, or that the alternative was a hard one, or that respectability was
a very expensive thing for people of small means, or a little of all
three together, which was most probable, since the Captain rarely dealt
in motives that were not sufficiently mixed.
“And now, papa,” said she, “use your most ingenious devices to show me
how I am to answer all these engagements, and while I meet Mr. Winthrop
in Switzerland, contrive also to be on guard here, and on outpost duty
with Mr. Ludlow Paten.”
“You 'll do it, Loo,--you 'll do it, or nobody else will,” said he,
sipping his iced drink, and gazing on her approvingly.
“What would you say to Bregenz for our rendezvous with Winthrop?” said
she, bending over the map. “It is as quiet and forgotten a spot as any I
know of.”
“So it is, Loo; and one of the very few where the English never go, or,
at least, never sojourn.”
“I wish we could manage to find a small house or a cottage there. I
should like to be what dramatists call 'discovered' in a humbly
furnished chamber, living with my dear old father, venerable in years
and virtues.”
“Well, it ought not to be difficult to manage. If you like, I 'll set
off there and make the arrangements. I could start this evening.”
“How good of you! Let me think a little over it, and I will decide. It
would be a great comfort to me to have you here when Charles Heathcote
comes. I might need your assistance in many ways, but perhaps--Yes, you
had better go; and a pressing entreaty on your part for me to hasten to
the death-bed of my 'poor aunt' can be the reason for my own hurried
departure. Is it not provoking how many embarrassments press at the same
moment? It is an attack front, rear, and on the flanks.”
“You 're equal to it, dear,--you 're equal to it,” said he, with the
same glance of encouragement.
“I almost think I should go with you, papa,--take French leave of these
good people, and evacuate the fortress,--if it were not that next week I
expect Ludlow to be back here with the letters, and I cannot neglect
_that_. Can you explain it to me?” cried she, more eagerly,--“there is
not one in this family for whom I entertain the slightest sense of
regard,--they are all less than indifferent to me,--and yet I would do
anything, endure anything, rather than they should learn my true
history, and know all about my past life; and this, too, with the
certainty that we were never to meet again.”
“That is pride, Loo,--mere pride.”
“No,” said she, tremulously, “it is shame. The consciousness that one's
name is never to be uttered but in scorn in those places where once it
was always spoken of in honor,--the thought that the fair fame we had
done so much to build up should be a dreary ruin, is one of the saddest
the heart can feel; for, let the world say what it will, we often give
all our energies to hypocrisy, and throw passion into what we meant to
be mere acting. Well, well, enough of moralizing, now for action. You
will want money for this trip, papa; see if there be enough there.” And
she opened her writing-desk, and pushed it towards him.
The Captain took out his double eye-glass, and then, with due
deliberation, proceeded to count over a roll of English notes fresh from
the bank.
“In funds, I see, Loo,” said he, smiling.
“It is part of the last three hundred I possess in the world. I drew it
out yesterday, and, as I signed the check, I felt as might a sailor
going over the side as his ship was sinking. Do you know,” said she,
hurriedly, “it takes a deal of courage to lead the life I have done.”
“No doubt,--no doubt,” muttered he, as he went on counting. “Forty-five,
fifty, fifty-five--”
“Take them all, papa; I have no need of them. Before the month ends I
mean to be a millionnaire or 'My Lady.'”
“I hope not the latter, Loo; I hope sincerely not, dearest. It would be
a cruel sacrifice, and really for nothing.”
“A partnership in an old-established house,” said she, with a mocking
laugh, “is always something; but I won't prejudge events, nor throw my
cards on the table till I have lost the game. And _à propos_ to losing
the game, suppose that luck should turn against us,--suppose that we
fail to supply some essential link in this chain of fortune,--suppose
that Trover should change his mind and sell us,--suppose, in short,
anything adverse you please,--what means are remaining to you, papa?
Have you enough to support us in some cheap unfrequented spot at home or
abroad?”
“I could get together about two hundred and forty pounds a year, not
more.”
“One could live upon that, could n't one?” asked she.
“Yes, in a fashion. With a number of privations you have never
experienced, self-denial in fifty things you have never known to be
luxuries, with a small house and small habits and small acquaintances,
one could rub through, but no more.”
“Oh, how I should like to try it!” cried she, clasping her hands
together. “Oh, what would I not give to pass one year--one entire year
of life--without the ever-present terror of exposure, shame, and scorn,-
-to feel that when I lie down to rest at night a knock at the street
door should not throw me into the cold perspiration of ague, or the
coming of the postman set my heart a-throbbing, as though the missive
were a sentence on me! Why cannot I have peace like this?”
“Poverty has no peace, my dear Loo. It is the poorest of all wars, for
it is the pettiest of all objects. It would break my heart to see you
engaged in such a conflict.”
And the Captain suffered his eyes to range over the handsome room and
its fine furniture, while his thoughts wandered to a French cook, and
that delicious “Château Margaux” he had tasted yesterday.
Did she read what was passing in his mind, as, with a touch of scorn in
her manner, she said, “Doubtless you know the world better,” and left
the room?
CHAPTER XLIX. THE PALAZZO BALBI
The household of the Palazzo Balbi was unusually busy and active. There
was a coming and a parting guest. Sir William himself was far too much
occupied by the thoughts of his son's arrival to bestow much interest
upon the departure of Captain Holmes. Not that this ingenious gentleman
had failed in any of the requirements of his parasitical condition, nay,
he had daily improved the occasion of his presence, and ingratiated
himself considerably in the old Baronet's favor; but it is, happily, the
lot of such people to be always forgotten where the real affections are
in play. They while away a weary day, they palliate the small
irritations of daily life, they suggest devices to cheat ennui, but they
have no share in deeper sentiments; we neither rejoice nor weep with
them.
“Sorry for your friend's illness!”--“Sincerely trust you may find him
better!”--or, “Ah, it is a lady, I forgot; and that we may soon see you
on this side of the Alps again!”--“Charming weather for your journey! “-
-“Good-bye, good-bye!”
And with this he shook his hand cordially enough, and forgot him.
“I'm scarcely sorry he's gone,” said May, “he was _so_ deaf! And
besides, papa, he was too civil,--too complaisant. I own I had become a
little impatient of his eternal compliments, and the small scraps out of
Shelley and Keats that he adapted to my address.”
“All the better for Charley, that,” said the old Baronet “You'll bear
his rough frankness with more forgiveness after all this sugary
politeness.” He never noticed how this random speech sent the blood to
her cheeks, and made her crimson over face and neck; nor, indeed, had he
much time to bestow on it, for the servant opened the door at the
instant, and announced, “Captain Heathcote.” In a moment the son was in
his father's arms. “My boy, my dear boy,” was all the old man could say;
and Charles, though determined to maintain the most stoical calm
throughout the whole visit, had to draw his hand across his eyes in
secret.
“How well you look, Charley,--stouter and heavier than when here.
English life and habits have agreed with you, boy.”
“Yes, sir. If I can manage to keep my present condition, I 'm in good
working trim for a campaign; and you--tell me of yourself.”
“There is little to say on that subject. When men live to my term, about
the utmost they can say is, that they are here.”
Though he tried to utter these words in a half-jocular tone, his voice
faltered, and his lips trembled; and as the young man looked, he saw
that his father's face was careworn and sad, and that months had done
the work of years on him since they parted. Charles did his utmost to
treat these signs of sorrow lightly, and spoke cheerfully and even
gayly.
“I'd go with your merry humor, boy, with all my heart, if you were not
about to leave us.”
Was it anything in the interests thus touched on, or was it the chance
phrase, “to leave _us_,” that made young Heathcote become pale as death
while he asked, “How is May?”
“Well,--quite well; she was here a moment back. I fancied she was in the
room when you came in. I'll send for her.”
“No, no; time enough. Let us have a few more minutes together.”
In a sort of hurried and not very collected way, he now ran on to talk
of his prospects and the life before him. It was easy to mark how the
assumed slap-dash manner was a mere mask to the bitter pain he felt and
that he knew he was causing. He talked of India as though a few days'
distance,--of the campaign like a hunting-party; the whole thing was a
sort of eccentric ramble, to have its requital in plenty of incident and
adventure. He even assumed all the vulgar slang about “hunting down the
niggers,” and coming back loaded with “loot,” when the old man threw his
arm around him, and said,--
“But not to me, Charley,--not to _me_.”
The chord was touched at last. All the pretended careless ease was gone,
and the young man sobbed aloud as he pressed his father to his breast.
The secret which each wanted to keep to his own heart was out, and now
they must not try any longer a deception.
“And why must it be, Charley? what is the urgent cause for deserting me?
I have more need of you than ever I had. I want your counsel and your
kindness; your very presence--as I feel it this moment--is worth all my
doctors.”
“I think you know--I think I told you, I mean--that you are no stranger
to the position I stood in here. You never taught me, father, that
dependence was honorable. It was not amongst your lessons that a life of
inglorious idleness was becoming.” As with a faltering and broken
utterance he spoke these words, his confusion grew greater and greater,
for he felt himself on the very verge of a theme that he dreaded to
touch; and at last, with a great effort, he said, “And besides all this,
I had no right to sacrifice another to my selfishness.”
“I don't understand you, Charley.”
“Maybe not, sir; but I am speaking of what I know for certain. But let
us not go back on these things.”
“What are they? Speak out, boy,” cried he, more eagerly.
“I see you are not aware of what I thought you knew. You do not seem to
know that May's affections are engaged,--that she has given her heart to
that young college man who was here long ago as Agincourt's tutor. They
have corresponded.”
“Corresponded!”
“Yes, I know it all, and she will not deny it,--nor need she, from all I
can learn. He is a fine-hearted fellow, worthy of any girl's love.
Agincourt has told me some noble traits of him, and he deserves all his
good fortune.”
“But to think that she should have contracted this engagement without
consulting me,--that she should have written to him--”
“I don't see how you can reproach her, a poor motherless girl. How could
she go to you with her heart full of sorrows and anxieties? She was
making no worldly compact in which she needed your knowledge of life to
guide her.”
“It was treachery to us all!” cried the old man, bitterly, for now he
saw to what he owed his son's desertion of him.
“It was none to _me_; so much I will say, father. A stupid compact would
have bound her to her unhappiness, and this she had the courage to
resist.”
“And it is for this I am to be forsaken in my old age!” exclaimed he, in
an accent of deep anguish. “I can never forgive her,--never!”
Charles sat down beside him, and, with his arm on the old man's
shoulder, talked to him long in words of truest affection. He recalled
to his mind the circumstances under which May Leslie first came amongst
them, the daughter of his oldest, dearest friend, intrusted to his care,
to become one day his own daughter, if she willed it.
“Would you coerce her to this? Would you profit by the authority you
possess over her to constrain her will? Is it thus you would interpret
the last dying words of your old companion? Do not imagine, father, that
I place these things before you in cold blood or indifference. I have my
share of sorrow in the matter.” He was going to say more, but he stopped
himself, and, arising, walked towards the window. “There she is!” cried
he, “on the terrace; I'll go and meet her.” And with this he went out.
It is not impossible that the generous enthusiasm into which Charles
Heathcote had worked himself to subdue every selfish feeling about May
enabled him to meet her with less constraint and difficulty. At all
events, he came towards her with a manner so like old friendship that,
though herself confused, she received him with equal cordiality.
“How like old times, May, is all this!” said he, as, with her arm within
his own, they strolled under a long vine trellis. “If I had not to
remember that next Wednesday I most be at Malta, I could almost fancy I
had never been away. I wonder when we are to meet again? and where, and
how?”
“I'm sure it is not I that can tell you,” said she, painfully; for in
the attempt to conceal his emotion his voice had assumed a certain
accent of levity that wounded her deeply.
“The where matters little, May,” resumed he; “but the when is much, and
the how still more.”
“It is fortunate, then, that this is the only point I can at all answer
for, for I think I can say that we shall meet pretty much as we part.”
“What am I to understand by that, May?” asked he, with an eagerness that
forgot all dissimulation.
“How do you find papa looking?” asked she, hurriedly, as a deep blush
covered her face. “Is he as well as you hoped to see him?”
“No,” said he, bluntly; “he has grown thin and careworn. Older by ten
years than I expected to find him.”