times since Pet come to live with me. He looked sideways and kind o’ sheepish at the house as he passed. I’ve a notion that he was a lover of Pet’s, too.”
“He’s the man, or boy, for us!” cried Tiffles. “Is in the bill-posting business, and knows the town better than I do, if anything. A shrewd fellow, judging from his looks; and, if he’s in love with Miss Minford, then he’s sure never to tire of hunting her up. He must disguise himself, and find young Van Quintem, and follow him day and night, till he brings up at Miss Minford. That’s the shortest road. When Miss Minford has been found, then we will consider what is to be done next.”
Mrs. Crull and Overtop at once approved of this plan, and no time was lost in putting it into execution.
CHAPTER V.
BOG’S OPEN SESAME.
Bog was easily found, and gladly consented to do the work allotted to him. It was agreed that he should conduct the search alone, and in his own way; but that, after he had succeeded in tracing Miss Minford to her place of concealment, he should send word, without delay, to Mrs. Crull, and also to old Van Quintem, whose advice upon the subject had been obtained. It was thought that the reasoning and entreaties of the two together would win back the poor girl from the path of danger which she was unconsciously treading.
Bog disguised himself by putting on his old, discarded working clothes; and, as he looked at his reflection in the glass, thought how much truth there was in the maxim, that “fine feathers make fine birds.”
“Go, my good boy,” old Van Quintem had said to him, in faltering accents; “go among the gambling houses, and other dens of infamy, and you will surely hear of my son.”
Acting on this advice–which confirmed his own opinion–Bog proceeded to visit the gambling houses on Broadway. Child of the city as he was, he knew the locations of them all. His constant travels about town, day and night, had made him a master of all this knowledge, and much more of the sort, which is only useful when, as in the case of this poor orphan boy, it serves to show where evil must be avoided, not sought. Thus the pilot, taking his vessel through Hellgate, profits by his knowledge of the rocks and the shallows, to steer clear of all dangers, and come safely into port.
Bog, before leaving his shop, had been provided with this decoy note, written by the ingenious Wesley Tiffles in cunning imitation of Miss Minford’s handwriting. The long, elegant curves, and all the delicate peculiarities of her chirography, taught by Miss Pillbody, had been copied from the sample furnished by her note to Mrs. Crull. It ran as follows:
MR. VAN QUINTEM:
DEAR SIR: Come to me at once, for I am in trouble.
PET.
The plan (Bog’s contrivance all this) was to inquire at the gambling houses where Mr. Van Quintem, jr., was most likely to be, and, when he was found, to send this note in to him by a servant. Bog, having delivered the note, was to withdraw to the sidewalk, lie in ambush, till young Van Quintem came out, and then follow him to Miss Minford’s retreat. There he was to wait, and send a swift messenger to Mrs. Crull and old Van Quintem. It was not known that young Van Quintem had ever seen Miss Minford’s handwriting; but, to make the game sure, the note had been written with a skill worthy of a counterfeiter, or that most dexterous of penmen, young Van Quintem himself.
Bog commenced operations about three o’clock in the afternoon–the hour when the gambler and debauchee, who have been up all the previous night, are ready to begin their feverish life again.
He first visited a snug establishment near the lower end of Broadway. It was situated in the second story, over a nominal exchange office, and was the favorite resort of down-town brokers, who, having gambled on Wall street till the close of business hours, dropped in to flirt with Fortune an hour or two before going home to dinner. Sometimes their hour or two was protracted to six o’clock next morning, when they staggered home to breakfast and a curtain lecture together. This Temple of Faro was never impertinently molested by the police; and it was a subject of remark, among people who thought they had been robbed there, that there was never a policeman within sight of the door.
In the hallway of the second story occupied by this gambling saloon, were a number of doors, which the experienced eye of the boy at once decided to be blinds, or, in other words, no doors at all, but only imitations. The appearance of the second story was that of a suite of unoccupied offices. Whoever rapped at these blind doors, could obtain no admission.
At the end of the hallway, Bog came upon a long window, which was painted white on the inside. He saw, by a glance at the grooves of the lower sash, that it was often raised. There was a boot-worn hollow on the floor beneath the window. The unusual length of the lower sash, and the nearness of the sill to the floor, would permit persons to step into the room easily when the window was raised.
Bog rapped thrice at this window. He had a vague idea–derived from reading, perhaps–that three raps were an open sesame to mysterious rooms the world over. The last rap had not ceased to vibrate on the pane of glass, when the window was suddenly shoved up, as if by somebody waiting on the other side.
A negro of intense blackness stood revealed. He took a hasty inventory of Bog’s old clothes, and then said, “Clare out, now!” He commenced to close the window.
“I was told to give you a half dollar,” said Bog, bethinking himself of a powerful expedient, “if you would find out whether Mr. Van Quintem was here, and hand him a letter.”
The negro’s eyes dilated, and his thick lips wreathed into a grin.
“Mr. Fan Squintem–a little feller with a big black mustache? I knows him. Dunno wether he’s in, ‘L see fur ye.” The negro paused. The interrogatory, “Where’s your half dollar?” could be plainly seen in his great eyes.
“Here it is,” said Bog.
The negro grinned his satisfaction, pocketed the coin, disappeared through another door from which there exhaled an odor of cigars and mint juleps, and returned, in a minute, with the intelligence, “He a’n’t in, Mister. P’a’ps you want to leave some word for him?”
Bog had no time to lose. He said, “Nothing partickler,” and hurried off, leaving the negro to puzzle over his half dollar.
At the next gambling saloon, near the junction of Broadway and Park Row, Bog simplified his method of operations. Before making any inquiry of the servant who answered his triple rap, he thrust a half dollar at him, and then put his question. This plan saved surly looks and explanations. Mr. Van Quintem was a well-known patron of the establishment, but had not been there for a week: which was rather strange, the man politely added.
Bog continued his search, walking as fast as he could. In second stories, in third stories, in fourth stories, in the rear of ground floors, in one or two basements, among all the more fashionable gambling dens, which, at that period, lay between Fulton and Tenth streets, he picked his way. His new system had drawn heavily upon his stock of loose silver, and he had but two half dollars left. The question now was, how to spend them?–for Bog knew of no more resorts of gamblers on Broadway; and there were none on any of the side streets which a man of young Van Quintem’s style would be likely to frequent. It was the edge of evening.
The boy walked up and down between Tenth and Fourteenth streets, thinking what it would be best to do next. He kept a sharp lookout at the passers by, hoping to see the object of his search. He paused to rest himself a few minutes in the doorway of a photographic gallery; and, while there, observed two young men, with sickly complexions and bloodshot eyes, coming up the street. He recognized them as young men whom he had often seen issuing from gambling places in the small hours of the morning. They were talking briskly, and Bog pricked up his ears.
“The very d—-l’s in the cards lately,” said the whitest-faced of the two.
“Luck must have a turn,” said the other. “By —-” (with a horrid oath), “suppose we try Van’s?”
“Van’s? Where’s that?”
“Why, the concern just opened on the corner above. The biggest kind of suppers there, they say.”
“All right,” said the other, wearily. “We’ll try Van’s.”
Van is a common prefix of names in New York; but Bog needed no further assurance that this Van belonged to Quintem. The opening of a new gambling saloon under his name (with some wealthy backer furnishing the capital, as is usually the case) would explain why young Van Quintem had not been seen at any of his old haunts on Broadway for a fortnight past.
Bog followed his guides at a short distance. After proceeding two squares, they stopped in front of a stylish old mansion, and, after a furtive look up and down and across the street, ascended the steps, and opened the door. As they did so, Bog swiftly passed the house, and saw that a muscular servant stood within the entry, for the obvious purpose of preventing the intrusion of persons not wanted there. The large diamond breastpins and depraved faces of the two young men were their passports, and were _vised_ without hesitation by the diplomatic attendant.
Bog took a half dollar in his hand, advanced to the door, which was now closed, and boldly opened it.
The athletic guardian of the place, being confronted with this audacious youth in old clothes, put on a commanding look, and said:
“Well, sir, and what the d—-l do you want here?”
“Only to give you half a dollar, as I was told to,” said Bog, “and to ask if Mr. Van Quintem was in. Note from a lady, sir; that’s all.” Bog winked.
The servant smiled, and took the coin.
“He’s in,” was the reply.
“Then please hand this to him, and say as how it’s ‘mportant. No arnser wanted.”
The servant received the note, and sententiously remarked, “Consider it done;” whereon the boy Bog hurriedly retreated, and hid himself in a doorway nearly opposite. He had hardly done this, before the door of the house opened again, and disclosed the man whom he longed to see. The letter was crumpled in his hand, and his pale face betrayed agitation. He cast wary looks in all directions, and then descended to the sidewalk, and walked fast down Broadway. Bog emerged from his seclusion, and followed him at a distance, always keeping somebody between him and the object of his pursuit.
At the corner of Astor Place, young Van Quintem stopped; and Bog came to a halt also, half a block behind.
The next minute, the Eighth-street stage, going up, approached the corner at a rapid rate, as if the driver were hurrying home to his supper. There were but few persons in the stage.
Young Van Quintem hailed the conveyance, jumped in before it could stop, and the driver whipped up his horses to an increased speed. Bog was tired, and he knew not how far he might have to follow the stage at a full trot. He resolved upon his course instantly. Turning the corner of Clinton Place, he ran up that side of the triangular block, and met the stage. He pulled his old cap farther over his eyes, to prevent the possibility of recognition by young Van Quintem, and, gliding swiftly behind the stage, when he was sure that the driver was not looking, hooked on to the step behind, just as he had done a thousand times when he was a smaller boy.
CHAPTER VI.
TRACKED.
Young Van Quintem sat at the farther end of the stage, absorbed in his own thoughts. His thin lips moved restlessly at times, as if he were arguing to himself. In his hand he still held the crumpled note. Twice he unfolded it, and read the contents carefully; then crushed it in his hand again. Bog watched him through the window of the stage door–not looking straight at him, but with that side vision with which we trace the outline of faint comets. He was aware that young Van Quintem looked at him twice suspiciously, and then settled back into his own meditations. Bog felt safe in his disguise–or rather his original and native dress.
When the stage stopped to take in or let out passengers, Bog slipped from his perch, and hid himself from the driver’s sight. Long experience had taught him how to render himself invisible to that vindictive personage.
The stage rolled on to the Greenpoint ferry, dropping all its passengers by the way, excepting the pursued and the pursuer. It was now evident that young Van Quintem was going to Greenpoint.
The ferry boat was not in, and would not be in, and ready to leave again, for ten minutes. Bog, having seen his game enter the ferry house, thereby conclusively proving his intention to cross the river, slipped into a boiler yard near the ferry. There, against a post, he scrawled with a stump of pencil, on the back of two playbills (which he had brought with him for stationery), two notes, as follows:
Tuesday Evening, about 8 o’clock.
Please come to the ferry house on the Greenpoint side, and wait there till I send for you. BOG.
These notes he addressed to Mr. Van Quintem, sen., and Mrs. Crull, at their residences. The next step was to find a boy to deliver them. Bog did not have to wait long for that. Boys of the ragged and city-wise variety may be picked up at any corner of New York at any hour of the day or night.
Another Eighth-street stage, which came rattling toward the ferry, brought a fine specimen of the juvenile vagrant and dare-devil, seated on the step. Bog looked out of the boiler yard, and hailed him with a shrill whistle, formed by thrusting two fingers in the mouth, and blowing fiercely. The boy recognized the signal of his ragged tribe, slid off the seat, and came running to where Bog was standing. As he drew near, Bog recognized him as a trusty lad whom he had employed as file leader in a walking advertisement procession, several weeks before.
“Wot yer want, hey?” asked this youth.
“Know me?” asked Bog.
“Know ye? No. Yer a’n’t one of our fellers.”
“Look again.” Bog raised his ragged cap, and smoothed his hair back.
“Why, it’s Mr. Bogert. Cuss me if it a’n’t!”
“Just so, Bill. I’m trying to catch a chap that owes me something, you see. He’s in the ferry house there, waiting for the boat. I’m going to follow him to Greenpoint, and find out where he lives. Then I’ll have him arrested. Now, there are two people I would like to have as witnesses, when I track him to his house. The names are written here; and what I want of you is, to deliver these notes to them as soon as you can, and tell them to come right away. Will you do it, Bill?”
“Won’t I, Mr. Bogert? Jest tell me the names, streets, and numbers, cos I can’t read handwritin’ very well, yer know.”
Bog read the addresses, and, at the same time, produced a quarter from his fast-diminishing stock of silver. “Take that,” said he.
“No yer don’t!” said the eccentric youth. “You’ve done some good turns to me. Bill Fish don’t forget his friends, I can tell yer. Here goes, now.”
Bill Fish snatched the notes from Bog’s hand, and ran down the street after a stage which had just left the ferry house on its down trip. Bog saw him seat himself on the step, with his head well hid from the driver, and sent a parting whistle after him, to which Bill Fish responded with an enormous grin and a jerk of thumb over shoulder at his natural enemy on the box.
“I’ll give Bill Fish a good job, some day,” mused Bog. “Now for the scoundrel.”
The boat had come in. Bog watched from his hiding place until he saw young Van Quintem step on board, and disappear in the ladies’ cabin. Then he hastened to the ferry house, paid his fare, and entered. To avoid being seen by young Van Quintem, he took a seat in that repository of stale tobacco-smoke called the “Gentlemen’s Cabin.”
At the Greenpoint landing, Bog watched young Van Quintem’s departure from the boat, and stole out, taking the opposite side of the street. It was then quite dark, and, with reasonable precaution, there was no fear that the pursued would see him.
The young profligate walked up the street several blocks, and turned into a side street, occupied by residences, with small shops and groceries at the corners, and occasionally at intervals between them. Suddenly, Bog observed him looking around, as if to be sure that he was not watched. Bog slipped behind a large tree. Having apparently come to the conclusion that nobody was observing him, young Van Quintem strode on rapidly a few rods farther, and then made a sharp turn into a neat little millinery shop, which stood quite remote from all other places of business.
When the young man’s form had disappeared, Bog ran at the top of his speed to a point opposite the shop, where he could readily see what was going on within.
The door was open and a strong light from the interior shone across the street. There was no tree or awning post, or other object, on the sidewalk, behind which he could conceal himself. Exactly opposite to the shop, and in the full blaze of its light, was a high door shutting on a small alley way. Bog tried the latch, and found the door locked. With instant decision, he caught the top of the door, and vaulted over it, trusting to fortune not to be caught on the inside. Applying his eye to the keyhole, he observed the following condition of things:
The shop was a milliner’s, beyond all question. It was filled with articles of ladies’ wear, whose names and uses were all unknown to Bog; while outside, in the air, dangled various patterns of skirts which had just then come into fashion; and the public and obtrusive exhibition of which is one of the singularities of our rapid civilization.
Behind the counter stood one of those thin ladies who have dedicated themselves to the millinery and a single life. At that distance, she looked to Bog like a perfectly respectable woman, with a sharp eye to business. Farther on, toward the end of the same counter, was the angel of his heart, Patty Minford. Her appearance, pale, and therefore more touchingly beautiful than ever, threw his senses into that sweet flutter which is the proof and mystery of love. He repeated the vow which he had made to himself, and dreamed of fulfilling a thousand times, to save her from harm at the risk of his life. She was folding up articles on the counter, and packing them into little boxes, and did not look toward young Van Quintem. Bog thought this a good sign.
The young man leaned over the counter, and addressed some words to her, to which her lips moved as if in reply, while her eyes were still downcast on her work. He then smoothed out the crumpled note which he had carried in his hand, and placed it before her. She started in amazement, as she remarked the close imitation of her handwriting; and, having read it, shook her head with a wondering air. Young Van Quintem’s inexpressive face assumed a look of astonishment, and he instantly walked to the door, and peered up and down the street, and opposite. Then he nodded to Miss Minford, as if to excuse himself for a moment, and, darting out of the shop, walked rapidly to the street below, and then to the one above, passing Bog’s hiding place on that side of the street, and causing that youth to remove his eye from the keyhole for fear of detection. When he had made this reconnoissance, and satisfied himself that there was no spy about, he returned to the shop. In the mean time, some pantomime had been going on between Miss Minford and the shopwoman, which Bog interpreted to mean that Miss Minford appealed to her for protection, and that the shopwoman promised it. This was followed by the retiring of the young lady through a door in the rear of the shop, and the locking of the door by her female friend, who put the key in her pocket.
Young Van Quintem came in, and was surprised not to see Patty. The shopwoman explained, with a gesture, that she had gone up stairs, whereon he consulted his watch, and then sat down in an armchair in front of the counter, as if with the determination of waiting for her.
Bog judged, from all the circumstances, that Miss Minford would not again show herself for some time; that young Van Quintem would wait, in the hope of seeing her; and that the shopwoman could be depended on as her friend to the last. He therefore concluded that he might safely spend time to go to the ferry house, and procure the company of old Van Quintem and Mrs. Crull, who had probably reached the rendezvous. Watching for an opportunity when the young man’s back was turned, Bog lightly vaulted from his hiding place, and noiselessly ran down the street.
CHAPTER VII.
FOUND AND LOST.
When he arrived at the ferry house, the boat was coming in, with his venerable accomplices on board. Upon receiving her cue from the faithful Bill Fish, Mrs. Crull entered her carriage (which had been in readiness for her since Bog started out on his search), and was driven to Mr. Van Quintem’s. The old gentleman, who was sitting in his study, with his light overcoat and hat on, prepared for any journey, took the spare seat in the carriage, and, in less than twenty-five minutes, by fast driving and the timely cooperation of the ferry boat, they were at the appointed spot.
“Have you found her, you dear Bog?” asked Mrs. Crull, breathless.
Bog answered “Yes,” and that Mrs. Crull should see her in five minutes. That lady then assisted him into the carriage, and kissed him on the forehead in a motherly way, which would have astonished the sedate family coachman, if he had not been entirely used to Mrs. Crull’s eccentricities.
“My good boy,” said old Van Quintem, in a trembling voice, “are you sure we are not too late–quite sure?”
“Sure!” said Bog.
“Thank God! thank God!” murmured the old gentleman. Then he looked with a strange interest upon the honest and intelligent face of the lad. He was contrasting the history of the poor boy, which he had learned from Mrs. Crull, with that of his abandoned son.
The carriage was stopped, by the order of Bog (who calmly took charge of the whole proceedings), at the corner of the street below the shop; and the party (excepting the driver) walked slowly toward the scene of interest. Old Van Quintem’s increasing infirmities compelled him to lean for support on the arm of Mrs. Crull, and also with greater and more confiding weight, on that of Bog.
As the party entered the shop, young Van Quintem was sitting with his head turned toward the door by which Miss Minford had vanished, savagely biting his finger nails. He wheeled in his chair, and confronted the intruders.
“What the —- are you doing here?” he cried to his father.
“We are here to save a young girl from ruin, and you from another crime,” said the old gentleman, greatly agitated, and leaning with his whole weight, now, on Bog’s arm.
“The —- you are! And you have brought along an old woman, and a boy that looks like a pickpocket, to help you.”
The phrase “old woman” stirred up Mrs. Crull. She left the old gentleman’s side, and advanced to within a yard of the profligate. “Old as I am,” said she, “I’m strong enough to spank such a white-livered, broken-down puppy as you are. But I’ll leave you to the hands of the law. It’s a long lane that hasn’t any turning, remember; and you’ll pull up at the gallows at last. That’s some comfort!”
Mrs. Crull here became conscious that it was highly impolite to lose her temper, and she fell back to the support of her old friend. Young Van Quintem laughed at her, showing his white teeth unpleasantly.
“Ah, I recognize you now,” he continued, looking maliciously at the boy Bog. “You are the young thief that tracked me here, are you? I’ll settle with you now.”
He sprang from his chair, and strode toward the lad. He was met halfway by Bog, whom the insulting epithet had stung to the quick.
A foe met halfway is half vanquished. A single glance at Bog’s clear, courageous eye, and his sinewy proportions, assured young Van Quintem that he had more than his match.
“This–this is no place for a row,” he faltered. “I’ll attend to you, some time, in the street.”
“I shall always be ready for you,” said Bog, smiling at this pusillanimous postponement–which is a mild way of making a clear backout.
Here the attention of all was called off by the appearance of Miss Minford. The quick ear of the milliner had caught her footstep on the stairs, coming down. She unlocked the door, and the beautiful object of their search stood before them. She was very pale, and tears dimmed her eyes. Mrs. Crull flew toward her, and the poor girl fell on her breast, and cried as if her heart would break.
Good Mrs. Crull helped her to a sofa, and sat down, and strained her young friend closely to her bosom, “Be calm,” said she, “dear child!”
Old Van Quintem and Bog looked on with sad interest. The young villain stood in a corner, gnawing his finger nails, and revolving schemes of vengeance. All waited for Miss Minford to become calm before any explanation was sought.
Under the soothing caresses of Mrs. Crull, the young girl soon became comparatively tranquil. With her head still pillowed on the broad bosom of her protectress, she made a broken statement to the following effect, in response to the tender questionings of that lady:
She said that she had no thought of leaving the house of her dear friend, until he had told her how much better it would be to earn her own living at some easy and pleasant trade, than to be dependent on one who was not a relative. He had also told her that, one day, when he was passing the house, he heard Mr. Crull scolding because Mrs. Crull had brought a girl home to be her companion.
At this point, Mrs. Crull turned furiously toward the pale offender. “You miserable wretch!” said she. “I only wish my dear old man was here, to thrash you soundly. Why, he loved this little darling almost as much as I did. Besides, I’m the mistress of our house; and he never meddles with my affairs. Go on, dear Pet.”
Pet then stated that he (she never called him by his name) had promised to get a place for her, and that she, supposing he was a true friend, had accepted the offer of his aid. One day, when they had met by appointment (which was very wrong, she admitted, with a fresh torrent of tears), he told her that he had found a nice situation for her in a milliner’s shop in Greenpoint, and that she must come right away, or she would lose the chance. She went home, and packed up her few things in a handkerchief, and came with him here in a carriage. She came directly here, and had not been out of Mrs. Wopping’s sight since then. Mrs. Wopping had treated her very, very kindly.
Mrs. Wopping, who had been lying in wait for her opportunity, here spoke up. She was a respectable woman, she said, thank God! and had been in the business for fifteen years, in New York. They could inquire about her in Canal street, where she had served her apprenticeship; in Division street, where she had been a forewoman; and in Grand street, where she had kept a shop. In an evil hour, she had been persuaded to start a millinery establishment in Greenpoint; and a very bad time she had had of it. All she knew about this unfortunate affair, was this: The young man, there, had called on her, a few days ago, and said that he wanted to do a favor for an orphan girl, who was a distant relative of his. She was poor, he said, but proud–no strange thing, Mrs. Wopping believed–and would not accept anything directly from him.
“Therefore,” said Mrs. Wopping, “he wanted to arrange with me to give her some easy work to do, enough to make her think she was earning her own living, and he would pay me her board, and give me twenty shillings a week to hand to her as her wages. By this plan, I could get a boarder at a fair price, and the services of a young lady to wait on the shop for nothing. Very imprudently, I consented, but not before I had made the young man there swear to Heaven that his intentions were honorable. This he did in the most solemn manner. I loved the dear girl at first sight, and determined to watch over her, and keep her from harm. I had a little sister once–long since dead–that much resembled her. I should add, that, though Miss Minford seemed to think very well of the young man there, when he brought her here, she became quite suspicious of him yesterday–he was here all yesterday afternoon–and refused to ride out with him, though he had brought a handsome carriage for her. I advised her not to go.”
“Thank you, good Mrs. Wopping!” said Mrs. Crull, shaking that lady by the hand, “you have been a true friend to our dear child; and I’ll order my bonnets from you for the futer. Virtue shouldn’t always be its own reward.
“You see, now, my darling,” continued Mrs. Crull, “what a scoundrel you have escaped from. Will you be my adopted child forever? Speak, my precious!”
Poor Pet threw her soft white arms around the thick neck of her protectress, and cried for joy. “Dear, dear mother!” she murmured.
There was a pause, daring which everybody but young Van Quintem had occasion to wipe their eyes. He paced up and down, his brow wrinkled, and inextinguishable hate flashing from his eyes.
“Well, sir,” said his father, calmly, “what atonement have you to make for this outrage?”
“You’re a —- old fool, and that’s all I’ve got to say.”
“Heaven be praised that his poor mother was not spared for this sorrow!” was the tranquil reply.
“Curse you–and the old woman’s memory. You’re always making a fuss about her.”
The benignant expression of old Van Quintem’s face vanished instantly, and a just rage gleamed on every feature. “Unnatural son! monster! fiend!” he cried, raising his hands aloft; “at last you have gone too far. Leave my presence, sir, and never–never–let me see your face again. I say to you, and before these witnesses, that I disown and disinherit you forever–forever–forever!”
The coward son could not endure that terrible visitation of parental wrath, and fled, without another word, from the shop.
Old Van Quintem fell exhausted upon the strong shoulder of the boy Bog.
“Henceforth,” said he, “you–you–shall be my son.”
[Illustration: FATHER AND SON.]
BOOK TWELFTH,
SPECULATIONS–PECUNIARY AND MATRIMONIAL.
CHAPTER I.
THE “COSMOPOLITAN WINDOW FASTENER.”
The “Cosmopolitan Window Fastener” was a veritable success. For the first time in his life, Mr. Wesley Tiffles’s theories had been demonstrated by results. Had the “Cosmopolitan Window Fastener” been his own invention, and disposed of for his own behoof, he would have abandoned it long before its merits had been fairly tested, and tried some other of the myriad schemes that floated through his brain. But the profits of the “Cosmopolitan Window Fastener” went to another; and this was the secret of Wesley Tiffles’s persistent (and therefore successful) exertions.
This was his plan of operations: In the first place, from the funds supplied by Marcus Wilkeson, he procured a patent for the invention. In the second place, he put an advertisement a column long in every daily paper–six insertions paid in advance–and handed a highly polished brass model of the invention to the editor, with a request to notice, if perfectly agreeable. The just and logical result followed. Instead of the ten-line paragraph with which patent churns and washing machines are ordinarily turned loose on society, the “Cosmopolitan Window Fastener” received notices so long and ornate, that it was quite impossible to derive from them a correct idea of the matchless simplicity of the invention.
Having thus roused public curiosity, Tiffles, in the third place, took an office on Broadway, and put up a large sign inscribed in gilt capitals, “The Cosmopolitan Window Fastener Manufacturing Co.” From this _pou sto_, Archimedes-like, he commenced to move the world of house owners. This he accomplished by the following manoeuvre: He caused double-leaded advertisements, under the head of special notices, to be inserted in all the papers, informing the public that it would be utterly impossible to supply the demand for the “Cosmopolitan Window Fastener,” and that, therefore, it would be useless to send in orders. The Company were employing all the resources of two large manufacturing establishments; but it was evident that these would fail to meet the extraordinary and totally unexpected demand for this indispensable protection against burglars–this moral safeguard, as it might not inappropriately be called, of civilized homes. The Company had made every effort, but without success, to secure a force of skilled workmen equal to the emergency. Justice to their customers in all parts of the country, compelled the Company to announce that no orders received after that date could be filled under two months. Under these remarkable–they might say, in some respects, disagreeable–circumstances, they begged leave to throw themselves on the indulgence of a generous public.
These notices were put forth not only in the form of newspaper advertisements, but as placards and handbills, which were stuck all over the city, and thrown into all the stages, falling like autumn leaves into the laps of passengers. This was the cooeperative work of the boy Bog, who, though adopted by old Van Quintem as his son and heir, had not yet given up the bill-sticking business, but, on the contrary, had increased it, and now had a practical monopoly of it in the city, with branches in the suburbs. Bog would not eat the bread of idleness–and so he had modestly told Mr. Van Quintem–and that fine old gentleman had patted him on the back, and told him that there was genuine Dutch blood in him.
Bogert & Co. now employed a hundred lads; and Bog’s department of labor was the general planning of operations, and the receiving and disbursement of the money–and a very nice and agreeable department it was. It enabled Bog to dress neatly, and keep his hands clean–two points upon which he was now extremely fastidious. Bog was growing tall, manly, and handsome. He was also showing a great improvement in his grammar and pronunciation–the fruit of diligent attendance at the evening school.
The public, being thus continually informed that orders for the “Cosmopolitan Window Fastener” could not possibly be filled under two months, very naturally began to send in orders for the invaluable invention, to be filled after that period. Every mail brought hundreds of them from all parts of the country. The Company–that is, Wesley Tiffles–sat at their desk in the Broadway office from, nine to three o’clock, exhibiting the window fastener to hundreds of visitors, and receiving orders rather as a matter of favor to the customer than to the Company.
At the end of a month, when orders to the amount of nearly seventy-five thousand dollars had been received–every Northern and Western State being extensively represented on the books–the Company issued another advertisement, to the effect that, owing to the overwhelming pressure of business, they were willing to dispose of patent rights for two of the States.
There was a rush of applicants, to all of whom the Company could truthfully exhibit large and genuine orders from all the States. The rights for two States were readily sold, and the Company then found that they could spare one more for a fair compensation; and so on, until every State in the Union had been disposed of, and the Company had not an inch of United States territory left. Not only this, but liberal purchasers were found for Cuba, Canada, South America, England, France, Germany, Russia, and all the countries of the Continent.
In three months, the Company had disposed of their entire interest, and realized about one hundred thousand dollars cash. This sum Tiffles had faithfully paid over, as fast as received, to Fayette Overtop, who not only represented Marcus Wilkeson (unknown to Pet), but was Pet’s own attorney and agent. By Fayette Overtop it was placed in bank, credited to Miss Patty Minford, and subject to her order alone.
Thus it happened that the poor inventor had not toiled in vain for the child that he loved.
Tiffles–with that strange unselfishness sometimes found in men of his class–had not thought of or desired any compensation for his services, other than the payment of all the bills incurred in the operation. The pleasure which he took in manipulating the public, and seeing his labors crowned with success, was the only reward that he wished for.
Marcus Wilkeson, however, as soon as he saw that Tiffles was actually about to perform the amazing feat of raising money, determined, as an act of common justice, to insist upon his receiving twenty per cent. of the total. Tiffles flatly refused, at first, saying (which was true) that he could work a great deal better if he had no personal interest in the scheme; but yielded, at length, to the earnest solicitations of Marcus, backed by the emphatic declaration of Miss Minford (through her attorney), that she would not touch a penny of the money unless he consented. So, when the affairs of the Company were wound up, Tiffles found himself the possessor of twenty thousand dollars–a sum whose existence in a concrete form he had always secretly disbelieved. And Tiffles’s first act was to settle up all his outstanding debts.
The unexpected acquisition of this immense sum imparted a charm to every object in life except Miss Philomela Wilkeson.
Poor Miss Wilkeson was quick to discern the change in Tiffles’s manner toward her. His calls were as frequent as ever, but were exclusively on her half-brother, and had no side bearing in her direction. He no longer lingered in the entry to converse with her; and flatly refused her invitation to take a glass of wine in the dining room. Most ominous of signs, he did not press her hand in the least, when he took it in his own. His voice was no longer winning, but harsh and neglectful. Indifference brooded in the heart of the monster. The worst of it was, that he had been so cautious and noncommittal in his declarations, that she could not upbraid him for his perfidy. With a cold calculation worthy of a demon, he had made love in the pantomimic way, and eschewed written or verbal communications of an erotic nature. No jury could have muleted him one cent for damages in a breach-of-promise case, and he knew it.
While Wesley Tiffles slipped off Miss Wilkeson like a loose glove, she might as well have tried to divest herself of her natural cuticle as to banish all thoughts of him. Miss Wilkeson was accustomed to allude mysteriously to certain sentimental affairs of her youth. In confidential moments, her friends had been favored with shadowy reminiscences of a romantic past. But truth compels us to state that Miss Wilkeson had never been the recipient of that delicate and awkward thing known as a proposal, and that she had never been kissed by man or boy since she wore long dresses. Hence the magnified importance which she attached to that kiss which, in a moment of reckless but cheap gallantry, Wesley Tiffles, on one fatal evening, had impressed upon her withered hand. She loved the destroyer of her peace with the pent-up energies of forty years.
CHAPTER II.
MIDDLE-AGED CUPID.
Being in ignorance of Tiffles’s sudden fortune, she was at a loss how to explain his defection. She conjectured all things, and finally settled down to the conclusion that he was a coy young man, and had not been sufficiently encouraged by her. She remembered instances where he had exhibited signs of ardor–in one case so far as beginning to slip a hand around her waist–and she had repelled him. He was evidently waiting for some marked encouragement. How foolishly prudish she had been!
One evening, as Wesley Tiffles was passing through the hall to the door, after a rattling hour with the three bachelors, he was confronted by Miss Wilkeson, who chanced to leave the front parlor on a journey up stairs at that moment. She was dressed in a light silk, and her hair was carefully braided, and her face had a pink color in some parts, which contrasted well with the pallor in other parts; and her glass had told her that she was looking uncommonly youthful and charming. She had carefully studied her part, which was to be a bold one, throwing off all reserve.
“Good evening, Mr. Tiffles,” said she, promptly offering her hand.
He took it with unsqueezing indifference. She had expected that.
“Mr. Tiffles,” said she, with an air of youthful raillery, “you are a naughty man, and I had an idea of not speaking to you again.”
“Naughty!” said Tiffles, astonished. “How?”
“Why, you have hardly been civil to me, of late. I do believe you wouldn’t speak, or shake hands with me, if I didn’t always set the example.” This in a half-complaining, half-laughing way.
It suddenly flashed upon Tiffles that he had been, for some time, rather neglectful of the lady. It also forcibly occurred to him that it was wise policy to be on good terms, at all times, with the mistress of the house; and such was Miss Wilkeson’s present position. He therefore clutched her hand again, gave it a faint squeeze, and said that he apologized a million times for his rudeness; but the fact was, he had so much business on hand, that he had been turned into a perfect bear, he supposed. He playfully challenged Miss Wilkeson to step into the parlor and take a glass of wine, and he would show her that he was not the brute she fancied.
Miss Wilkeson laughingly accepted the challenge. “But I do believe,” she added, “that it is only the glass of wine you care for. Now tell me, Mr. Tiffles, aren’t you a woman hater?”
“When a man is asked that question, categorically, by a woman, his most effective answer is to make love to her out of hand. Tiffles was not prepared to do this in the present case, but he was willing to pay compliments to any extent.
“Ah, Miss Wilkeson, there you do me great injustice,” said he, with his pleasantest of laughs. “I drink this glass of wine to ‘lovely woman,'” with a nod at Miss Wilkeson.
Miss Wilkeson giggled, and took a fly’s sip from the brim of her glass.
Tiffles heaved a sigh. “We bachelors are poor, unhappy fellows, really to be pitied.”
“You are horrid creatures–you know you are–and deserve no pity from us!” Miss Wilkeson played her frisky, juvenile part admirably.
“So charming, and yet so cruel!” said Tiffles, uttering the first preposterous compliment that he thought of.
“You flatterer!” said Miss Wilkeson, beating a breeze toward him with her fan.
Tiffles, observing that matters were coming to a crisis, paused. Miss Wilkeson interpreted his silence as another attack of timidity. Time was valuable to her, and this kind of conversation might be kept up all night, and amount to nothing. She resolved upon her final _coup_.
“Oh! oh! Mr. Tiffles, what–what is the matter?” She looked wildly about her.
“The matter! What matter?” exclaimed that gentleman, little suspecting what was to happen.
“The wine–the warm weather–something–oh! oh!”
“With these inexplicable remarks, Miss Wilkeson dropped her fan, uttered a slight but sharp scream, and fell back in her chair, like a withered flower on a broken stalk.
“By thunder, she has fainted!” said the excited Tiffles. He had never been in a similar dilemma, and did not know what to do. He had heard tickling of the feet highly recommended in such cases; but that was obviously impracticable. A dash of cold water in the face was also said to afford instant relief; but there was no water at hand. “I must call for help,” said he.
This remark appeared to arouse Miss Wilkeson. “Support me,” she murmured. “I shall be better soon.”
Tiffles, all accommodation, clasped her fragile waist with an arm, and gently inclined her head upon his shoulder. She heaved a sigh, and gave other tokens of returning animation. Tiffles here noticed that her face had not the prevailing paleness which always accompanies fainting. He instantly suspected the true nature of Miss Wilkeson’s complaint.
The noise of quick footsteps resounded in the entry. Marcus, Overtop, and Maltboy had heard the sharp scream, and were rushing to the rescue.
“Good heavens! what will they say?” exclaimed Tiffles. “Don’t be silly, Miss Wilkeson, at your time of life.” This cutting remark was wrung from him by the annoyance and confusion of the moment.
It served as a wonderful anodyne; for Miss Wilkeson Jerked herself into an erect position, and said, “You’re a fool!”
At this juncture, before Tiffles had quite uncoiled his serpentine arms from her, and while she was looking fiery indignation at him, the door was pushed open, and the three bachelors rushed in.
“I really beg pardon,” said Marcus. “No occasion for my services, I see–ahem!”
“Heard a scream–thought it was here–no intention to intrude,” added Overtop.
The tableau reminded Maltboy of his own innumerable little affairs, and he laughed. “It’s a lovers’ quarrel,” said he, “and not to be interrupted, of course.”
The three bachelors hastily evacuated the room, and their merry laughs rang in the entry.
“Miss Wilkeson,” said Times, consulting his watch–he carried a gold one, with an enormous gold chain–“you must really excuse me. Important business engagement at nine. Good evening.” So saying, Tiffles precipitately retired, with the determination not to enter the house again until he knew that Miss Wilkeson was out of it.
A week from that memorable day, Tiffles met Marcus Wilkeson on Broadway.
“Why haven’t you been to see us?” said Marcus.
“Not been very smart, of late,” explained Tiffles.
“Fainting fits, perhaps. Maybe they are catching, eh?”
Tiffles smiled, for he saw that Marcus knew the truth. “How is Miss Wilkeson?” he asked, respectfully.
“She has gone into the country for her health, and will probably stay away a number of years. In short, I have engaged for her the position of first preceptress of a female seminary in the middle of the State. She said she was quite sick of the hollow and heartless life of New York.”
Marcus spoke truly. Miss Wilkeson had retired to the country with a thorough feeling of disgust for town existence. She has taught for several years, and is still teaching in the —- Young Ladies’ Seminary, with eminent success, though her fair pupils complain, with much pretty pouting, of her savage restrictions upon all walks and talks with the eligible young beaux of the village. They say that she hates the men; and they call her a cross old maid, and a great number of other hard epithets.
But, sometimes, a tear is observed in the corner of her eye, which she hastily wipes away. That tear is an oblation upon the memory of a lost love. That lost love was, and is, and always will be, Wesley Tiffles.
CHAPTER III.
SLAPMAN _vs_. SLAPMAN.
The case of Slapman _vs_. Slapman occupied the attention of the referee, Samuel Goldfinch, Esq., over two months. That gentleman was corpulent, fond of good dinners, and had a highly cultivated taste for scandal. It had been his custom to give this interesting case a hearing one or two hours every afternoon, daily, after court. It was a relief from the heavy business of the day; for Goldfinch had heavy business, which came to him because he was a fat and pleasant fellow, with a large head, and a great circle of miscellaneous acquaintance. The real work of the office was done by a modest, unappreciated man named Mixer. On the occasion of these antimatrimonial audiences, Mixer sat in the back room, grubbing among his dusty papers; while Samuel Goldfinch, Esq., in the front room, with shut doors, leaned back in his easy chair and surrendered himself to enjoyment.
In the case of Slapman _vs_. Slapman, a great number of witnesses had been examined on each side. Affidavits, amounting to hundreds of pages, had been obtained in distant States–some as far away as California. The lawyers had spared neither their own time nor the money of their clients in raking together testimony which would bear in the slightest degree upon the interests which they represented. All the relatives of Mr. Slapman had testified that he was a gentleman uniformly kind and courteous, possessing a singular placidity of temper, and indulgent to his wife to a degree where indulgence became a fault. Those relatives, and they were numerous–particularly in the country branch–who had passed anniversary weeks at Mr. Slapman’s house, were very severe on Mrs. Slapman. She was a proud, disagreeable woman. She was continually snubbing her husband before people. She had a great many male friends, whose acquaintance she had retained in defiance of his wishes. She was known to have received letters from men, and when her husband had desired to peruse them, had laughed at him. It is true that she pretended to be a patroness of literature, science, and the arts; but anybody could see that those things were only the cover of the grossest improprieties. She had been heard to listen without remonstrance, to declarations of love from several young men. It turned out, upon cross-examination, that these irregularities took place in charades and plays, of which Mr. Slapman’s relatives had been shocked spectators. With regard to Mr. Overtop’s transactions in the family, they could say nothing; for they had long since ceased to visit Mrs. Slapman, on account of her disgraceful conduct–and also (they might have added, but they did not add) because Mrs. Slapman latterly had her house full of Jigbees, and put her husband’s relatives into obscure rooms in the third story, and quite forgot their existence afterward.
_Per contra_, all the Jigbees–and they were a prolific race–swore that their distinguished relative was a pattern of artlessness and innocence. That she was remarkable from early childhood for a charming frankness and transparent candor. That when this bright ornament of the Jigbee stock was sought in marriage by the defendant, the whole family, with one mind and voice, opposed the match. They had felt that a being of her exalted intellectual tastes was too good for a sordid money-getting creature like Slapman. But that man, by his ingenious artifices, had succeeded in winning the hand of their gifted kinswoman, and married her against their unanimous protests. There was but one consolation for this family misfortune. Mr. Slapman was reported to be wealthy, and could afford to indulge his wife in the exercise of her noble longings for TRUTH. They were willing to say that Mr. Slapman had not been illiberal, so far as vulgar money was concerned. He had given to his wife the house and lot which she occupied, and had never stinted her in respect of allowances. But what was money to a woman of Mrs. Slapman’s soul, when her husband withheld from her his confidence and trust, regarded her innocent labors in behalf of Art, Literature, and the Drama, with a cold, unsympathizing eye, and finally descended so low as to feel a brutal jealousy of those gentlemen of talent, of whom she was the revered patroness?
“Money” (we are quoting here from the remarks of Mrs. Slapman’s eminent counsel) “is very desirable in its way, but is it not the vilest dross, your Honor, when compared with the pure gold of connubial trust and sympathy?” Mr. Goldfinch nodded his head, as if to say that he rather thought it was.
The testimony of two servant girls established the fact that Mr. Slapman had several times been overheard to tell his wife that she would regret it; and that the time was fast coming when forbearance would cease to be a virtue; also that the worm, when trodden on repeatedly, might at last turn and sting, and many other enigmatical sayings of that character. The very vagueness of these threats, implying unknown horrors, had inspired his wife with a mortal dread of him. She did not know at what moment this jealous and revengeful man might strike her dead. She had been living in the fear of her life for six years, and, during all this time, had never complained, or expressed that fear to one of her relatives or friends.
“Such is the noble, uncomplaining nature,” said the eminent counsel, in reference to this fact, “of the woman that Fate has thrown into the arms of a fiend.”
But the most striking proof of Mr. Slapman’s murderous designs upon his wife, was his conduct at the last dramatic _soiree_. Twenty witnesses swore that it was his evident intention to spring on her and strangle her, and that he was only thwarted in this horrid purpose by the noble courage of Fayette Overtop, Esq. Mr. Overtop briefly and modestly testified to this effect also; and, furthermore, narrated all the particulars of his acquaintance with Mrs. Slapman, holding before her a shield, from which the arrows of calumny, aimed by her husband, fell harmless.
Mr. Slapman had not shown himself in the referee’s office since the investigation began. He had become convinced that he had lost the case into which his mad jealousy and his lawyer’s advice had plunged him. Mrs. Slapman, according to the testimony of the two servants and several others, was immured in her house, and brooding over this saddest episode in her unhappy history.
“Nothing but that instinct of self-preservation,” said the eminent counsel, “which bids the dove to fly from the hawk, and the rabbit to evade the pursuing hounds, could have induced that delicate, shrinking lady to lay bare the horrors of her prison house to the world, and to ask, in the name of common humanity, a release from the tyrant, and a liberal alimony.”
The eminent counsel repeated this flight of fancy in the ear of Mrs. Slapman, at the opera that evening, whither she was accompanied by a few of the Jigbees, and she smiled, and said that it was really beautiful.
The protracted case–of which we have given a mere sketch–was decided by Samuel Goldfinch, Esq., in favor of the lady, a separation was decreed, and alimony fixed at six thousand dollars a year, that being only a wife’s fair proportion of Mr. Slapman’s income. Mrs. Slapman, with a well-assumed appearance of levity, gave a _grande soiree musicale et dramatique_ at her house, in honor of the event, at which Overtop was a favored guest. Mr. Slapman went direct to Slapmanville, and raised the rent on all his tenants, turned a superannuated non-paying couple into the street, and took a general account of his property, to see how much he could sell out for, preparatory to leaving for Europe, and so dodging the payment of the alimony.
The illustrated papers published two portraits–one of an angel, the other of a demon. The angel was Mrs. Slapman: the demon was her husband. The comic papers served him up in puns, conundrums, and acrostics, of the most satirical import. The daily papers, always on the look out for subjects to write about, improved the occasion to overhaul the question of divorce, in its statistical, moral, social, and religious bearings. Two editors, in pursuance of a previous agreement, continued to discuss the question with great warmth in their respective journals, until they had written about two hundred octavo pages, when the debate was published in book form, with paper covers, and sold for their joint benefit.
CHAPTER IV.
HOW OVERTOP SEALED A CONTRACT IN A WAY UNKNOWN TO CHITTY.
The notoriety which Fayette Overtop had derived from his questionable connection with the Slapman Divorce case, had (as has been already stated) materially contributed to his professional income. By the time the case was decided, the firm of Overtop & Maltboy ranked among the most successful of the Junior Bar.
Now that Overtop had his hands full of business, his thoughts reverted to matrimony more strongly than ever. It is a singular fact, that business men find more time to think of marriage, than men of leisure.
Thoughts of matrimony invariably brought Miss Pillbody into Overtop’s head. He would project mental photographs of her at the top of a table, beaming sweetly upon him, opposite, with her dim, lovely eyes, and pouring out the tea from a small silver pot. Overtop never could explain it; but this imaginary picture realized all his desires of domestic happiness.
Overtop not only thought of Miss Pillbody, but, what was more to the purpose, he visited her. For this, pretexts were not wanting. They never are. At first, he professed to have been requested, by a friend in the country, to find a suitable private school for two young daughters. This justified several visits, until Miss Pillbody could decide positively that it would be impossible for her to take them–an announcement which greatly relieved Overtop, though it temporarily put an end to his calls. Then he hit upon the expedient of pretending to write an essay on Popular Education, for a monthly magazine, and desired to obtain hints from her upon the subject. Miss Pillbody, not displeased with the compliment, though declaring that she had not an idea to give him, gave him a great many good ideas, to which he appeared to listen, while he was contemplating her trim figure, and the animated expression of her face, and thinking how very well she would look at the head of that poetical table behind that phantom teapot. At last the topic of Popular Education ran out; and Overtop felt that this kind of imposition could not be practised much longer.
One day, while Overtop sat at his desk, with a mass of law papers before him, thinking not of them but of his dilemma with respect of Miss Pillbody, a small boy brought him a beautifully written little note from that lady, asking him to call that evening on business. Overtop sent a reply, written with extraordinary care (this is a sign of love), saying that he would be happy to call, as requested. At the same time, he felt a pang of apprehension that she had found places in her school for the two young daughters of his supposititious country friend.
Overtop dressed with unusual care that evening, and presented himself at Miss Pillbody’s house, punctually at the appointed hour. The young teacher was hard at work in the back parlor, setting copy for the illiterate wife of a rich city contractor to try her brawny fist on next day. Miss Pillbody’s bewitching eyeglasses bestrided her nose; and the narrow collar, wristbands, and dainty apron with the red-bound pockets, looked whiter than ever.
The teacher blushed slightly as Overtop entered, and put away the copy book on a high shelf, thereby intimating that she should not work more that night, and Overtop could stay as long as he would. Thus, at least, that sagacious student of men, women, and things, interpreted it. Without a particle of those preliminary commonplaces for which Overtop had a cherished aversion, Miss Pillbody broke into business at once.
She said that a Mrs. Cudgeon, the wife of a citizen who had made a large fortune in butter and eggs, had been taking lessons in all the English branches, and French (here Miss Pillbody smiled), for six months, but had postponed payment on one pretext and another, and had finally withdrawn from the school, leaving unpaid tuition to the amount of one hundred and fifty dollars. Miss Pillbody had written several dunning letters to Mrs. Cudgeon, and received no answer. The soft grass of epistolary entreaty having failed, Miss P. now proposed to try what virtue there was in the hard stones of the law. She had sent to Mr. Overtop for advice.
Overtop listened to the statement of the case with professional attentiveness. He was sub-thinking, all the time, what an extremely sensible woman Miss Pillbody was, not to allow herself to be cheated, but to go to law in defence of her rights. He assured his interesting client that she could count on his best services, and that she might consider the one hundred and fifty dollars as good as recovered. From this point the conversation glided off into a wilderness of general topics. Overtop had a habit (a bad one, it must be confessed) of sounding people’s mental depths. He found that Miss Pillbody was no shallow thinker. He left the house at eleven o’clock, supposing it was ten, and had a delightful vision, that night, of the little round table and the teapot, and the presiding angel.
Next day, Overtop wrote the following letter:
New York,–.
MR. J. CUDGEON:
SIR: Enclosed is a bill of items, amounting to one hundred and fifty dollars, for your wife’s tuition at Miss Pillbody’s private school. Be good enough to look it over, and inform me, to-morrow, what you will do about it. I will tell you candidly, that it is for our interest, as a young law firm, to sue you for the debt; but my client will not consent to this, until all other efforts fail, out of regard to the feelings of Mrs. C.
Your obedient servant,
OVERTOP & MALTBOY,
No —— Building,
J. CUDGEON, Esq.
Overtop remembered that one J. Cudgeon had run for the Assembly at the previous fall election, and he surmised that, being a politician and a public character, J. Cudgeon would not like to see the bill of items in print. Overtop reasoned correctly; for, at ten A.M. the following day, that gentleman called at the office and paid the one hundred and fifty dollars, and said that he was very much obliged to Overtop & Maltboy for their gentlemanly conduct in the affair. Mr. Gudgeon had not been aware of his wife’s pupilage at Miss Pillbody’s private school, though he had observed (he added, confidentially), for some months past, a slight improvement in her grammar. “I am not ashamed to say that we were poor once,” said Mr. Gudgeon, with a glow of pride.
“When Overtop placed the one hundred and fifty dollars in the white hand of the schoolmistress, she looked at him with gratitude and admiration, which more than repaid him. Not only this, but she asked him, with not a particle of hesitation, how much his fee was.
“Fee!” exclaimed Overtop, a little nettled at the implied insult. (Young lawyers are apt to be.) “Nothing, Miss Pillbody; decidedly nothing.”
“But I prefer to pay you, Mr. Overtop. Why should you work for me for nothing, when I am not willing to do the same thing for Mrs. Gudgeon? ‘The laborer is worthy of his hire,'” she added, laughing. “I set that adage in a copy book to-night.”
“But I won’t take anything,” said Overtop, no longer nettled, but charmed to perceive this exhibition of sound good sense in a young lady.
“But I insist that you shall,” continued Miss Pillbody, pleasantly. “Tell me, now, how much it is.”
Overtop was standing within two feet of the schoolmistress, and her soft, dim eyes were beaming right into his. We leave psychologists to settle the phenomenon as they will; but the fact was, that each saw love in the eyes of the other. Overtop, in his bachelor musings, had thought over a hundred odd methods of putting _the_ question. At this critical moment in the history of two hearts, a new form of the proposition occurred to him, so original and eccentric, that he determined to propound it at once.
He took Miss Pillbody’s hand in his, before she knew it. She blushed, and would have withdrawn it; but he retained the hand with a gentle pressure.
“My dear Miss Pillbody,” said Overtop, “I will take five dollars from you on one condition, and no other. Will you grant it?”
The schoolmistress, not knowing what she was saying, said “Yes.”
“The condition is, that I shall buy an engagement ring, and put it on this dear hand.”
Miss Pillbody blushed, and cast down her gentle eyes. The sagacious young lawyer, interpreting these signs as a full consent, stole his arm around her waist, and sealed the contract in a way all unknown to Chitty.
CHAPTER V.
A RETURNED CALIFORNIAN.
At last, Matthew Maltboy was engaged. He had, since twenty, been dallying on the edge of a betrothal. Now he had taken the momentous step into that anomalous region which lies between celibacy and married life, where a man is not exactly a bachelor, nor yet, by any means, a husband. It is the land in which the dim enchantments of romance begin to assume the plain outlines of reality. It is the land in which the pledge of undying affection, breathed, at some rapturous moment, into a delicate, inclining ear, becomes invested with awful meaning, and has a value in the legal market like a bond and mortgage. It is the land where the excitement of pursuit is over, and the game is securely cornered, but not yet in hand. It is the spot where the ardent huntsman of Love pauses to look back, and ceases to bend his longing gaze into the distance beyond.
How it came to pass that the unreliable Matthew Maltboy had become the affianced one of the pleasant widow Frump, it is not the purpose of this history to record. Let it suffice to say, that the mutual aversion which they felt, some months before, at Mr. Whedell’s house, on New Year’s day, was the starting point in their course of true love. Such an aversion, subsequently smoothed away, is often the most promising beginning of a courtship.
Mrs. Frump had frequently met Matthew on the street, and been gratified with his deferential bow. His bulk, to which, as a rotund lady, she had taken an antipathy, seemed to dwindle down as it was looked at. Matthew, whose ideal was a delicate woman with observable shoulder blades, had also, by repeated sights of Mrs. Frump, become reconciled to her ample proportions. Meantime, they had heard much, incidentally, of each other through Marcus Wilkeson. Matthew had come to esteem Mrs. Frump for her affectionate devotion to old Van Quintem; and Mrs. Frump had secretly admired the powerful though silent legal ability displayed by Mr. Maltboy in the inquisition before Coroner Bullfast.
One night, Matthew, accompanied Marcus to his old friend’s house; and, on the second night following, this couple were engaged–a happy event, which was brought about no less by the widow’s experience, and conviction that there was no time to lose, than by Matthew’s impulsive ardor.
He had been engaged ten days; and so entirely had he talked out the time to the widow, that it seemed six months.
“Why is it,” thought Matthew, stretching himself in his chair, and looking critically at the widow, who was knitting crotchet work, “why is it that I no longer adore her? She is just as pretty, just as amiable, just as affectionate as ever. Now, why don’t I care a button for her at this moment?” Matthew was not a transcendental philosopher; and the true answers to these questions did not come to him.
Old Van Quintem, pale and beautiful in his declining years, sat by the window that opened on the green leaves of the back yard, calmly smoking his pipe, and thinking, with a holy sadness, of his dead wife and his worse-than-dead son. The old gentleman, and the two quiet affianced ones, who sat near him, made up a well-dressed and handsome group; the pictorial effect of which was suddenly marred by the apparition of a stranger in the doorway.
He was tall, muscular, and what little could be seen of his face through a heavy growth of whiskers was mild and prepossessing, in spite of two large scars just visible below the broad brim of a rough hat. His dress was faded and dirty.
The stranger stood in the doorway, and surveyed the occupants of the room.
Old Van Quintem looked at the intruder a moment, and then said, as if remembering something, “Are you the man sent by Crumley to mend my piazza railing?”
There was the least hesitation in the man’s voice, as he answered, “Yes, sir. I’m here to do that job.” His voice was a deep growl, as of a grizzly bear half tamed.
“Where are your tools?” asked old Van Quintem.
The stranger communed with himself, and then replied, in the most natural manner, “I s’pose I only want a saw, a hammer, and a few nails. You have ’em, haven’t yer?”
“You’re a funny sort of carpenter, to travel without your tools. Do you know, now, that you look more like a California miner than a carpenter?”
“That’s not very ‘markable,” returned the stranger, in profound guttural accents, “considerin’ as how I come from California this week.”
“You have brought home tons of gold, I dare say,” said old Van Quintem, playfully.
“A little,” growled the stranger. “The diggins was poor in Calaveras County when I fust went there, but latterly they improved.”
At the mention of Calaveras County, the widow suddenly fixed her eyes upon the stranger, and then dropped them on her crotchet work.
Matthew Maltboy here conceived a happy thought, namely, to ask this stranger if he ever knew Amos Frump (the deceased husband of Mrs. Frump), who was killed in that very county in an affray growing out of a disputed claim, five years before. Mrs. Frump, after her engagement to Matthew, had furnished him with slips from three California papers, giving full particulars of the sanguinary affair. Before he was engaged, he had never felt the slightest curiosity to know the history of his predecessor; but, since then, he had entertained a strong secret desire to learn more of him, and especially of the reasons which induced him to abandon a young and lovely wife, and make a Californian exile of himself. Upon this subject the widow had never volunteered any satisfactory information, and he had been politely reluctant to ask her about it.
Old Van Quintem, who was too sleepy at that time to talk much, procured the necessary tools from a cupboard in the kitchen, and showed the stranger what work was to be done. The old gentleman then returned to his easy chair by the window, threw a handkerchief over his head, and settled himself for a nap.
Before the carpenter had struck the first blow, Matthew Maltboy rose, remarked to the widow that he wanted to stretch himself a little, and walked out upon the piazza.
The carpenter stood near the door, with the saw in one hand and the hammer in the other, very much in the attitude of listening. At Matthew’s approach, he commenced feeling the teeth of the saw, as if to test their sharpness.
“I would like to speak a word with you, sir,” said Matthew, in a low voice, motioning the carpenter to accompany him to a corner of the piazza, out of the widow’s possible hearing.
Having attained that safe position, Matthew opened the great subject.
“You remarked that you had dug gold in Calaveras County,” said he. “Did you ever happen to know a man by the name of Frump–Amos Frump–who was a miner there?”
“Frump!” replied the carpenter. “He was an intimate friend of mine.”
“Now that’s lucky,” said Matthew, “for I want to find out something about the man.”
“Then you’ve come to the right shop,” answered the carpenter; “for his own brother–if he ever had one–couldn’t tell you more about him than I.”
“I am indeed fortunate. In the first place, then this man Frump is really–dead?”
The carpenter pulled his rough hat farther over his forehead, and replied:
“As dead as two big splits in the skull could make him. But ‘xcuse me, sir; he was my bosom friend, and I can’t bear to talk of his death.”
“He _is_ dead, then, and no mistake,” said Matthew, soliloquizing. “Yet I am not exactly glad to know it.”
The carpenter’s face expressed surprise at this remark.
“I beg your pardon,” said Matthew. “Of course I am not glad to hear of your friend’s death. But, to tell the truth,” he continued (inventing an excuse), “I had always heard that this Frump was a wild fellow; that he didn’t treat his wife decently, and at last ran away from her. You see I am acquainted with the family. In fact, I know Mrs. Frump quite well.”
“And did she tell you all this about her dead husband?” asked the carpenter.
“Oh, no!” returned Matthew, who began to fear that he had gone too far. “She never says anything about his personal character. I only spoke from common report.”
“Then common report is a common liar; for I know there never was a steadier chap than this same Amos Frump; and his wife can’t say that he ever struck her, or said a cross word to her. Amos told me all about himself; and I’d believe him through thick and thin.” The carpenter spoke in his dismal chest voice, without the least indication of excitement.
“Then why did he leave his wife? and why did she never hear of him until the time of his death? You will confess that _that_ was odd.”
“I give you the reasons,” answered the carpenter, “as Amos give ’em to me. It seems that _he_ was a poor, uneducated feller. _She_ had a few thousand dollars from her grandfather’s property, and was sent by her parents to the best o’ schools. Though he and she were so much unlike, they got up a kind o’ fondness for each other from the time when Amos saved her from bein’ run over by a horse. They used to meet each other secretly, because, you see, her folks didn’t like Amos. They thought that a girl with three or four thousand dollars in her own name, ought to set her eyes rather above a feller like him. Well, arter no end o’ trouble, they was married. Her folks pretended to treat Amos all right, but was allers talkin’ agin him; and finally they pizened her mind with the idee that he had married her only for her money, and that all the while he loved another gal. She began to treat him very cold like, and, one day, when she was in a little bit of temper–“
“Has Mrs. Frump any temper?” asked Matthew, anxiously. “I never saw it.”
“But you a’n’t her husband,” replied the carpenter. “Amos told me that she did show a leetle temper now and then. However, he allers said she was a pooty good gal in the main. Well, one day, when her dander was up about somethin’, she told him that she b’lieved he married her for her money, and she’d die before he should have a cent. Amos was a proud feller, if he _was_ poor; and, when he heerd this, he left the house right off, walked to New York, and shipped as a sailor to San Francisco. I met him when he fust come to the mines, and, as he was a spry, tough chap, I let him work a claim with me on shares. We ate and slept together, and many a time, in the dark night, has he spoke to me about his wife, and how much he thought of her; but he said he never should go back till he had money enough to buy out her and her hull family. We was very unlucky, and Amos got downhearted, and took to drink. By and by he moved off to another claim, and worked on his own hook. He did better there; but all the gold he dug out he used to spend in gamblin’ and rum; and at last a drunken quarrel put an end to Amos Frump.”
“Poor fellow!” said Matthew. “And do you think the widow ever grieved for him?”
“No, I guess not; for Amos allers said that she was not a very lovin’, affectionate woman; though, if he had been as rich as her, or if her family had let her alone, she would have made him a tol’able wife.”
“Not loving! Not affectionate!” thought Matthew. “And I am about to marry her!” A cold shudder crept over him.
Hiding his emotions with an effort, he again interrogated the affable carpenter:
“And do you really think that Mr. Frump would have returned, and lived again with his wife, if he had become rich?”
“To be sure he would. He couldn’t marry anybody else, yer know, without committin’ bigamy. He allers said he didn’t care much whether his wife loved him, so long as she treated him civilly.”
“Mr. Frump had practical views of married life,” suggested Matthew.
“Amos was sensible in some things,” said the carpenter. “But he was a queer feller, too. He allers had a notion of comin’ home kind o’ disguised, so that his wife shouldn’t know him. I used to tell him that a few more years in Californy would make him so thin, yaller, and grizzly, that he wouldn’t need no disguise.”
CHAPTER VI.
REVELATIONS OF A LAUGH.
The carpenter here burst out with an extraordinary peal of laughter. It was so very peculiar, that, once heard, it would always be identified with the person making it. This singular laugh consisted of a brilliant stacatto passage on a high key, interrupted by occasional snorts, and terminating with a slur which covered the whole descending octave. It was also very loud and very long.
It had the effect of bringing Mrs. Frump to the door. She thrust out her head, unseen by either the carpenter or Matthew, and looked at the former with a wondering air.
“It was an odd idea,” said Matthew, laughing slightly out of compliment to the carpenter, though he could not understand what there was to laugh at.
“And now,” continued he, when the carpenter’s cachinations had subsided, “I will explain to you my motive in asking all these questions. I am engaged to Mrs. Frump, and she is now–“
The carpenter immediately broke into another of his remarkable laughs, louder and longer than before.
“Well, sir,” said Matthew, sarcastically, “when you get through, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me what you are laughing about?”
“The idee–ha! ha!–of your–ha! ha!–marrying Mrs.–ha! ha! ha!” and the remainder of the sentence was lost in that monstrous laugh.
Matthew, irritated by this most aggravating species of ridicule, took the carpenter’s measure for a kick–but judiciously refrained from fitting him with one.
The second of the carpenter’s laughs had made the widow (still stealthily looking out of the door) turn pale. The third had inspired her with a painful curiosity, which she had determined to gratify, at any risk. Before the last laugh, she had, therefore, crept up, unobserved, near where Matthew and the carpenter were standing, with their backs toward her. Coming around suddenly in front of them, she saw the carpenter’s mouth wide open, still in the act of laughing, and observed that one of his front teeth was out. The widow screamed, and fell–into Matthew’s arms, nearly flooring him.
“Hold on to her,” said the carpenter. “She will come to in a minute.”
“Who, sir–who on earth _are_ you?” shouted Matthew, struggling under the burdensome widow and a sense of mental bewilderment.
“I am Amos Frump,” he replied, in a voice which had suddenly risen five notes.
“The widow’s husband! The dead come to life!” exclaimed Matthew, starting back, and nearly dropping the inanimate form.
Astounded as he was, he did not forget the marital rights of the man before him; and he said, with a trembling voice, politely, “I beg your pardon; but, as you are this lady’s husband, perhaps you had better hold her.”
“She appears to be doing very well where she is,” replied the singularly calm Amos Frump. “A moment more, and she will be out of her fainting spell. I’ve seed her very often this way before.”
Mr. Frump’s prediction was verified; for his lips had scarcely closed on the words, when Mrs. Frump opened her eyes, and feebly said, “Is it a dream?”
“No, Gusty,” replied the composed Amos; “it is a husband come back from Californy, with fifty thousand dollars.”
“It is–it is my own ‘husband’s voice!” cried Mrs. Frump, throwing herself impulsively out of Matthew’s arms upon the patched and faded coat of her restored consort.
“I thought you would know the voice,” said Amos, “and that’s the reason I changed it into a growl. This ‘ere old Californy suit was a pooty good disguise, too. But my confounded laugh betrayed me. I didn’t think to change that.”
The third laugh had roused old Van Quintem from a nice nap, and he came out on the piazza.
“Hallo, Mr. Carpenter! what are you doing there?” said he, good-naturedly.
A few words from the supposed carpenter defined his position, and threw old Van Quintem into the appropriate state of amazement. Looking at the shaggy face by a variety of lights, he soon came to recognize it as that of his niece’s husband, whom he had seen a few times on his yearly visits to the country, before his farming brother, Nicholas Van Quintem, father of Mrs. Frump, had died.
“From the way Gusty hangs to you, I judge you are no ghost,” said old Van Quintem, when he had partly recovered his senses.
“No more than I am a carpenter,” was the dry response.
“But how does it happen that you are no ghost?” asked old Van Quintem, with fearful interest.
This was what everybody wanted to know; and so Mr. Frump, supporting his wife by the waist, while she, apparently half stupefied, reposed her head on his shoulder, explained the mystery of his appearance. He had been severely injured in a drunken quarrel about a claim–he would not deny _that_; and, taking off his broad-brimmed hat, he showed the two deep scars extending from his eyebrows to the roots of his hair. He was left on the ground for dead, and his assailants ran away. The enterprising correspondent of three San Francisco papers saw him when he was first found, and, learning that he would undoubtedly die, the enterprising correspondent regarded him as already sufficiently dead for newspaper purposes, and sent three thrilling accounts of his butchery, written up with ingenious variations, to the three journals of which he was the indefatigable “special.” In a few days, the nearly murdered man was out of danger. On learning that the news of his death had already been sent to the papers, the singular idea came into his mind to let the report go uncontradicted, change his name, give up drinking, move away to some place where he was not known, and begin his miner’s life over again. The special correspondent, on being consulted by him, assured Mr. Frump that he could depend on his (the correspondent’s) silence, since it was his invariable practice never to take back or qualify any statement made by him–such a course being obviously fatal to his hard-earned reputation for accuracy. The correspondent also very obligingly supplied him with copies of the papers containing the circumstantial accounts of his death, which he directed in a disguised hand, and sent through the mail to his wife. He had then assumed another name, gone into Benicia County, was successful in gold digging, and, after making about two thousand dollars, had taken up his residence in the nearest village (undesignated), and had invested his money in speculations (kind not particularized). Fortune followed him, but he found it convenient, for certain reasons (not given), to move away to another village, in a few months. In fact, he had, within four years, made the entire circuit of California, never staying in one place more than a quarter of a year.
“I don’t want to brag,” said Mr. Frump, “but it is well enough to have it understood that I made my pile.”
Mr. Frump nodded his head quietly, as one who does not lie.
Old Van Quintem had hitherto hesitated to congratulate Mrs. Frump upon the reacquisition of her husband. He now advanced, and shook her warmly by the hand.
“I wish you joy,” said he. “And you too, Mr. Frump. I never had the pleasure of meeting you often, though I had frequently heard of you. With regard to those unpleasant family difficulties in which you became involved, they are now at an end; for Gusty’s parents are both dead, and the old house and farm are sold. Let bygones be bygones.”
“So say I, Mr. Van Quintem,” said Mr. Frump, grasping the extended hand. “As for my wife’s relatives, I’m sure I allers forgave ’em. As for the old house and farm, if you like, Gusty, we’ll buy it back agin.”
Mrs. Frump, still resting on her husband’s shoulder, sobbed a little, and clung closer about him.
“Here is one friend of the family,” continued Amos, in his pleasantest manner, pointing to Matthew, “whom I don’t know by name, though we’ve scraped an off-hand ‘quaintance.”
“Mr. Frump–Matthew Maltboy, Esq.,” said old Van Quintem.
Matthew, like Mrs. Frump, had fully appreciated the awkwardness of his situation, and had kept a rigid silence since the returned Californian resumed possession of his wife. The minute after Mr. Frump’s identity had been established, Matthew could have hugged him with ecstasy. But, having lost the widow, his fickle mind straightway began to discover in her a great many excellencies that he had never seen before. Therefore, when he submitted his hand to the grip of Mr. Frump, his face expressed a strangely mingled joy and regret.
“I like you,” said Mr. Frump, “and, as soon as wifey and I commence housekeepin’ agin, I’ll expect lots o’ visits from you. Whenever I’m not at home, wifey’ll make everything comfortable. Won’t you, dear?”
“If you wish it,” replied Mrs. Frump, looking up into his face, which was not a repulsive one, “for your word shall always be my law.”
“I must say,” said Matthew, his face exhibiting unqualified admiration for Mr. Frump, “that you are the most generous man I ever met. And, if Mrs. Frump will promise to introduce me to some nice young woman, that she could recommend for a wife, perhaps I’ll accept your invitation.”
“I’ll get you a wife in less than a week,” said Mrs. F., who was rejoiced that the interview between her recovered husband and late suitor had ended peacefully.
“But one thing you haven’t yet explained, Amos,” said old Van Quintem. “How did you get into Crumley’s employment?”
“Bless your innocent heart, I am not! I arrived this mornin’, in the steamer—-, straight from Aspinwall, with this old scarecrow suit on, jest as you see me now. I was intendin’ to take the railroad for Tioga County, and play off a leetle surprise on Gusty, and her relations up there. But, before goin’, it ‘curred to me to call on a Mr. Lambkin, who was raised in Tioga, and keeps a grocery store in the lower part of Washington street. I found Mr. Lambkin in, and he told me as how, accordin’ to last accounts, Gusty was stayin’ with her uncle Van Quintem. I knowed your address, and come up here short metre. I was goin’ to pretend that I was a man in search of work, and trust to luck to get a sight of Gusty. I found your front door open, and walked through the entry to the back parlor, where you fust see me standin’. Afore I could ask you for any work, you wanted to know if I hadn’t been sent to mend your piazza railing. It was easy to say ‘Yes,’ and I said it.”
“And very well you carried out the joke, Amos,” said old Van Quintem. “You wouldn’t make a bad actor.”
“Rather better actor than carpenter, I guess,” said Mr. Frump.
“Perhaps so,” said old Van Quintem; “but a financier of your talent needn’t act, or mend railings, for a living. I should like to know, now, how you made your money in California. Nine out of ten who go there, come back poorer than they went.”
“‘Tisn’t best to ask too many questions of a returned Californian,” answered Amos, in perfect good humor.
“Nor of anybody else, about business matters. You are right,” added old Van Quintem.
“I say to wifey, and to all my friends, ‘Let bygones be bygones. Take me as you find me, and I’ll take you as I find you; and we’ll ax no questions on either side.'”
“Dear Amos, you are the best of husbands!” said Mrs. Frump, looking fondly in his face. Mr. Frump improved as he was looked at.
“Let bygones be bygones’ is a very good rule,” said old Van Quintem.
“Mr. Frump,” said Matthew, unable longer to repress the compliment, “you have a wonderful amount of good sense!”
“I told you,” was the laughing reply, “that ‘Amos was sensible in some things.'”
BOOK THIRTEENTH
THE STRANGE LADY.
CHAPTER I.
A STORY OF THE PAST.
Another year slipped away, and wrought many changes among the inhabitants of the block. Some of them had passed from stately mansions to those narrow houses which are appointed for all the living. Others had wedded, and moved to other blocks which were to be their future homes–till the 1st of the following May. Some of them had grown rich by quick speculations, and got into the choicest society by the simple manoeuvre of taking a four-story brownstone front in the avenue which formed the eastern boundary of the block. Others had attained to poverty by the same process, and had migrated to cheaper lodgings in blocks remote, expecting that a lucky turn of Fortune’s wheel would bring them back to fashionable life next year, as it most likely would. The principal personages of this history had been radically affected by this lapse of time–as will hereafter be shown–with the single exception of Marcus Wilkeson.
For one year, life had passed tranquilly, uneventfully. He had sought, and found, in his dear books, a panacea for that sickness of the heart which sometimes attacked him in his lonelier hours. At such, times, he would repeat to himself these expressive lines of an old poet:
This books can do; nor this alone; they give New views of life, and teach us how to live; The grieved they soothe, the stubborn they chastise; Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise. Their aid they yield to all; they never shun The man of sorrow, or the wretch undone. Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud, They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd, Nor tell to various people various things, But show to subjects what they show to kings.
The end of the quiet, sad (but not unpleasantly sad) twelve months found Marcus, on a bright morning in the month of August, sitting at his window, with a favorite book on his knees, looking–where he should not have looked so much–at that window in the old house where the only tragedy of his life had been wrought. As he gazed, like one fascinated by a spell, his features lengthened, and the habitually melancholy expression of his face became deepened and confirmed.
So wrapt was he in these unhappy self-communings, that he did not hear a vigorous “rat-tat-tat” on the door of the little back parlor. A repetition of the performance aroused him, and to his call, “Come in,” Mash, the cook, presented herself.
“A woman at the door wishes to speak to you, sir, on important business, she says. Shall I show her in, sir?” Mash laid stress on the word “woman,” in retaliation for the somewhat peremptory way in which the person in question had accosted her at the door. The “Buttery and the Boudoir–a Tale of Real Life,” afforded her a precedent on this point.
“Show in the lady,” said Marcus, wondering who she could be.
A tall, shapely person, dressed in deep black, and wearing a thick veil, was ushered into the room. She bowed slightly, and took a seat which Marcus offered her, near the window, and then looked significantly at Mash, who lingered in an uncertain way about the door.
“You may shut the door, Mash,” said Marcus; and Mash did so with a little slam, intended to pierce the heart of the mysterious woman in black, for whom that domestic had, in one minute, conceived a mortal dislike.
The strange woman drew back her veil, and revealed a thin, pale face, which might have been handsome twenty years back. “Do you remember having seen me before?”
Marcus looked into the thin face with polite scrutiny. “Yes, madam,” said he, at length. “I think I saw you on a railway train in New Jersey, over a year ago; and also in the town of–, in that State, on the evening of a certain unfortunate exhibition. But you are changed, in some respects, since then.”
“You would say that I am paler and thinner; and I am here to tell you why I am, and also to make all the atonement in my power for a crime that I have committed.”
Marcus Wilkeson’s first thought was of the unfathomed murder. His startled face expressed what was passing through his mind.
The strange woman read his thoughts. “The crime to which I refer is not the murder of Mr. Minford; of which, I may here say, I believed, from the first, that you were entirely innocent. Crimes–of that character, at least–have never been known in your family.”
“All that you say, taken in connection with some curious circumstances which occurred on that railway ride, and that memorable night in New Jersey,” said Marcus, “make me intensely anxious to hear what you have to tell. Please impart the information at once, and fully. I call Heaven to witness, that your name, your history, the secret which you are to reveal, shall pass with me to the grave, if you desire it.”
“I accept your offer,” said she, with emotion, “though my crime is so flagrant that no publicity, no punishment would be too great for it. Still, as full justice can be done, and reparation made, without this public disgrace, I prefer that my identity should be unknown except to you. I think that I have but few months to live.” The woman expelled a hacking cough.
“My story must be short,” said she, “and suited to my strength and this cough. You probably remember Lucy Anserhoff, who was a little playmate of yours in your native village? I see, by your nod, that you do. I am–she. You may well look surprised, for there is little in my haggard face and wasted form to recall that once innocent girl. You remember, I presume, my engagement to your brother Aurelius–excuse my faltering, sir, for, even at this distance of time, I cannot speak of your dead brother without emotion. It is not necessary to recall to your memory the details of your brother’s conduct to me, and how he afterward married–another–and moved to this city. This early portion of my unfortunate career is well known to you, as it was to all the people of our little village.”
Here the strange visitor paused, and coughed. The cough was dry and hollow.
She continued: “I think I may say that I was amiable and good enough, as a child. But your brother’s desertion changed my whole nature. I dwelt upon one thought–revenge. I shudder as I confess it, but, for months, I meditated taking the life of the man who had wronged me. I came to this city twice, and lay in wait for him; but my heart faltered, and, thank God! I did not commit that crime. Soon, Heaven interposed–so it seemed to me at that wicked time–to help on my work of vengeance. Your brother’s wife died, giving birth to a female child. I used to ride into the city twice a week regularly after this, and watch for him near his place of business, that I might gloat on his pale, unhappy face. I see the look of horror with which you receive this part of my confession; but you will bear in mind, sir, that I am hero to tell the truth, concealing nothing. You remember, sir, the old lines about a woman scorned? I, sir, can bear witness to their awful truth.”
Another fit of coughing here interrupted her. At length she resumed, in a feebler voice: “I must hasten while I can talk at all. One day, while I was watching near your brother’s house for his appearance, the door opened, and a servant appeared, with a child in her arms–his child. The servant walked down the street, and I followed her, unobserved, until she came to Washington Parade Ground. She entered the park, and took a seat near the fountain. I sat down on a bench near her. It was not long before I made the girl’s acquaintance, and had the child in my arms, caressing it with well-counterfeited kindness. Suddenly, the girl recollected that she had left the street door of the house unlocked, and was afraid that the house, having not a soul in it, would be robbed during her absence. She was so much troubled about it, that she asked me to hold the child–then about a year old–until she could go and lock up the house, and return. A horrible suggestion came into my mind, and I took the child in my arms. The servant was no sooner out of my sight, than I rose, and, clasping the child tightly, walked rapidly in the opposite direction. When I had got out of the park, among the side streets near North River, I ran until I was tired, turning at every corner, to avoid pursuit. My plan was clear from the moment that the child was left in my charge. It was, to give her into the keeping of some stranger, and so rob the widowed father of his only child. It was a scheme worthy of the lost and wretched woman that I then was.”
A fit of coughing here set in, interrupting the narrative for several minutes. Marcus offered his strange guest a glass of water. She sipped it, until her cough was checked.
“I wished to make a full and minute statement, sir; but this cough again warns me to be very brief. In a word, then, I had not gone far, before I saw a German woman–a neat, elderly person–sitting on the stoop of her house. An impulse moved me to leave the child with her. I accosted her, but she answered me in German, saying that she could not speak English. Hardly knowing what I did, I mounted the steps, and placed the child in her arms, first kissing it. Then I tossed my pocket book, containing about twenty dollars, into her lap, and, without another word or act, ran off again. As I drew near the next corner, I turned, and saw the German woman still sitting on the stoop, looking at the child, and then at the money, and then at my flying form, in perfect amazement.
“Well, I returned to my country home in safety. Next day, I saw in the New York papers a reward of five hundred dollars for the recovery of the child, and the same amount for the arrest of the woman who stole it. My person was described, according to the recollection of the servant, but so imperfectly that I could not be identified. In two weeks I visited the city again, found the house where I had left the child–for I had remembered, even in my haste, the street and the number. The poor little thing was well, and had learned to love its new mother, who, in turn, seemed to love it as well as her own two children. I kissed the child, left more money with the German woman, and fled again to my home. These visits I repeated from week to week for six months, without detection. The German woman supposed that I was the mother of the child, but knew there was a secret, and did not seek to disturb it. At the end of the six months, your–your–brother died.” (There was here a slight quaver in her voice, almost instantly passing away.) “Soon after this, my mother died, and the last of our family estate was spent on her burial.” (Another tremor in the voice, but brief. The woman seemed to have perfect control of her feelings.)
“Fortunately, I was qualified to earn my living as a seamstress. I went to the city, advertised for such a place, and obtained it. I visited the child secretly, sometimes, and left money for its support and clothing. But the idea of detection and exposure troubled me greatly. One day, I read an advertisement from a married couple who had no children, offering to adopt a girl under two years of age. I answered the advertisement, and thus became acquainted with–“
“I anticipate the disclosure,” said Marcus. “Mr. Minford! And the poor, dear child is my niece. Heaven be praised, she is found at last!”
CHAPTER II.
POSSIBLE LOVE.
“You have guessed rightly. Miss Minford is your niece. The proofs will be found in this packet. They are articles of clothing, taken from the child as fast as new ones were supplied, to prevent its identification, bearing the initials of Helen Wilkeson. I preserved them, with the vague idea of benefiting her by them, some day. I have seen the child by stealth a few times since I gave her to Mr. and Mrs. Minford, but never called at their house. It was agreed between us that I should never make myself known as the child’s mother, and that they should never seek to learn my name and history. I acted as seamstress in several families in this city, until, about five years ago, I obtained an engagement in a family in New Jersey, living in the very town where that unlucky panorama was exhibited. It happened, as you know, that you and I rode in the same car from New York, where I had been on a shopping excursion. I recognized and was profoundly impressed with your resemblance to your brother. Learning that you were connected with the panorama, I attended the exhibition, that I might observe you more closely. There you were arrested on the charge of murdering Mr. Minford–of which, I again say, I always believed that you were totally innocent. You may remember that a woman fainted away. I was she. The sudden recollection of those two names–Wilkeson and Minford–in such a connection, was too much even for my nerves. I read the trial with fearful interest, and rejoiced in your release from the accusation. Providence at last seemed to point out the way to make all the reparation for my crime. I should have done it immediately after your acquittal, had I not seen by the papers that a wealthy lady–Mrs. Crull–had given your niece a home in her family. I postponed this act of justice from one week to another, until my failing health warned me that it could not be put off with safety longer. I thank Heaven that I have had strength and resolution to do it at last.”
“This act of atonement, madam,” said Marcus, “entitles you to my respect and sympathy. If you ever need a friend, I trust you will do me the favor of calling on me.”
“I thank you,” she replied; “but I have means enough to support me for