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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It was a clear, cloudless night without, and the stars twinkled and glistened as if the sky were full of bright eyes, looking gladly down upon the world, and taking a share in all its gayety and happiness. There was no moon, or rather the moon was a reveller, and kept late hours, and might be detected sneaking through the sky at about one or two in the morning, when she should have been a-bed; and in consequence of her neglect of duty the streets were dark, except where here and there the shop windows threw out bright streams of light, revealing now a wrinkled brow, now a fat, jolly face, and now a pair of bright sparkling eyes, glowing cheeks, and lips like a rose-bud, as the throng of people flitted past them; for an instant clear, distinct, with face, feature, and form plainly visible, and then lost in the darkness. Some paused to look in the windows, some to chat; and it might have been observed, that those who lingered longest in the light, were young, and such whose faces could bear both the test of light and scrutiny. But amid that crowd was a single man, who followed the same course as the rest; skulking in the dark corners, darting rapidly across the streams of light, with his head bent down and his hat slouched, as if he desired to avoid notice. When he reached those places which were comparatively less thronged, he paused and leaned against the iron railings of the houses, and more than once turned and retraced his steps, as if he had changed or mistaken his route. He was, as far as could be judged from the sudden and uncertain glimpses afforded of his person, tall and gaunt, with sunken eyes, long unshorn beard, and a face disfigured by a deep gash. He had the appearance of one broken down by ill health or suffering, and his panting breath, as he stopped, showed that he was taxing his strength by the pace at which he went. Although he paused often, and often turned back, yet in the end he resumed his journey, and finally reached the upper part of the city. There he struck into a dark cross-street. Once free from the crowd, and where few could observe him, his smothered feelings broke out; and muttering to himself, grating his teeth, blaspheming, now striking his clenched fists as if aiming a blow, he darted on. He did not pause until he came to the house of no less a person than Harry Harson. He crossed the door-yard hastily, as if he feared his resolution might give way; opened the front door, for Harry had no enemies, and his door was unbolted, and entered the outer room. The door communicating with the inner room was open, so that he could see within; and perhaps never was there a greater contrast than between the occupants of those two rooms. In one was a man eaten up by fierce passions, desperate and hardened, with all that is noble in the human soul burnt out as with a hot iron; in the other sat an old man whose benevolent features beamed with good will to all mankind. There was scarcely a wrinkle in the broad full brow; the hair was sprinkled with gray; but what of that? His eye was bright; his mouth teemed with good nature; and his heart—God bless thee, old Harry Harson! what need to speak of thy heart?
The intruder had come in so noiselessly, although his motions were rapid and bold, that Harson had not heard him, but sat reading a newspaper, and was not a little startled in looking over it to see a man seated within a few feet of him, and gazing at him with eyes as wild and bright as those of a maniac.
‘Who are you, in the name of heaven?’ ejaculated he, too surprised even to rise, and looking at the stranger as if he still doubted the reality of his being in that spot.
The man laughed, savagely: ‘Look at me, my master; look at me well; you’ve seen me afore. Try and recollect it.’
Harson’s embarrassment was not of long duration, and he examined the man from head to foot. A vague recollection of having met him somewhere, mingled with an indefinable feeling of suspicion and pain, crossed Harson’s mind as he studied the sunken features which were submitted unshrinkingly to his scrutiny. He thought, and pondered, and wondered; and still the man remained unmoved. He looked again; the man changed his position, and the light fell upon him from another direction. Harson knew him at once. He started up: ‘Murderer, I know you!’
The man was on his feet at the same moment.
‘Down to your seat, Sir!’ said he, in a loud, savage tone. ‘You’re right; but you cannot take me alive, nor will mortal man. In that room,’ said he, in a low tone, and pointing toward the dark stair-case which led to the upper part of the house, ‘I killed Tim Craig—the only man that ever loved me. He’s been after me ever since!’ He leaned his face toward Harson, and looking stealthily over his shoulder said in a whisper: ‘He’s waiting for me at the door. He sat down on the stoop when I came in. I don’t know why I came here, but he made me do it, and I must see where I killed him. It wasn’t me. It was Rust; it was Rust. Hark!’ He cast a hasty glance in the room behind him. ‘I’m going, Tim, I’m going,’ said he. ‘Quick! quick! give me the light!’
Seizing the candle, before Harson could prevent him, he rushed out of the room, and sprang up the stairs two at a time. Harson followed; but before he reached the door of the upper room, with a yell so loud and unearthly that it made the old man’s heart stand still, the murderer darted out; his face livid; his hair bristling, his eyes starting with horror. With a single bound he cleared the stairs; crossed the antechamber, the gate swung heavily to, and he was gone! And this was the last that was ever known of Bill Jones. A few months afterward, the body of a man was found floating in one of the docks, and was supposed to be his; but it was so mutilated and disfigured, that it was impossible to ascertain the fact with any certainty, and it was deposited in the earth with none to claim it or care for it, and with no mark to designate that the soil above it shrouded a heart which had once throbbed with all the hopes and fears and passions that were burning in the bosoms of those who were carelessly loitering above its resting place.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Ned Somers had followed Harson’s advice in not making his visits to Rhoneland’s too frequent. But whatever may have passed between him and Kate, and even if they did occasionally meet in the street and stop to speak, and sometimes to hold conversations which were neither short nor uninteresting to themselves, that is a matter between themselves with which we have nothing to do. Certain it is, however, that as Ned cooled off in his intimacy with Rhoneland, he appeared to rise in the old man’s estimation; and he grew more cordial when they did meet. It may have been that the suspicions implanted by Rust were gradually giving way before the frank, honest nature of the young man; or it may have been that gratitude for the assistance which Somers had lent, (and which Harson was very particular to give its full weight) in disentangling him from the toils of Rust; or it may have been the secret influence of Harson, who ventured, whenever it could be done, to speak a good word for Ned; or it may have been the drooping face of his child, which he was wont more than ever to study anxiously, that gradually softened his feelings; but there is no doubt that, to Kate’s surprise, he one day told her to get him pen, ink and paper, and to draw the table in front of him, as he was going to write a letter. And it must be confessed, that Kate’s color heightened, and her heart beat fast when he had finished the letter, directed it to Mr. Edward Somers, and then asked if she knew the address of Somers, which of course she did; although she hesitated and stammered as if it were a profound secret, and the answer the most difficult thing in the world.
But her surprise was scarcely greater than that of Ned himself, when a boy came to him with a letter which ran thus:
‘My dear Edward: Come to me as soon as you can; I wish to see you on a matter of much importance to both of us.
Yours truly,Jacob Rhoneland.’
Ned felt something bouncing about in a very queer manner directly under his ribs, as he read this note; but the sensation was not so painful as to prevent his obeying it with a speed that was perfectly marvellous; for to Rhoneland it seemed that the letter could scarcely have reached its destination before Ned was back with it in his hand.
‘You got my note,’ said he gravely, as Somers entered, his face flushed with the rapidity with which he had come.
‘I have.’
‘Don’t go, Kate,’ said he to his daughter, who with an inkling of what was to follow, was stealing away. ‘What I have to say relates to both of you.’
‘Some time since,’ said he, rising, and standing in front of Ned, ‘I wronged you, by making charges against you which I am now convinced were false. My mind was poisoned by one who has gone to his long account, and whose evil deeds may sleep with him. For this,’ said he, extending his hand, ‘I ask your pardon; much more frankly and freely than I did on the day when we met at Mr. Harson’s.’
Ned took the proffered hand; at the same time pouring out a confusion of words, the sum and substance of which was intended to be, that he had taken no offence; that he knew Jacob was misled by others; that he was not only perfectly willing, but very happy, to make up the matter, and say no more about it; which no doubt was very true, for within six feet of him stood Kate, with her soft eyes fixed on his face, and her little mouth dimpled with smiles, as she observed how swimmingly matters were going on. And could he be crusty and dogged? or could he cherish a grudge against her father? The thing was impossible. The extended hand was grasped, and grasped warmly.
‘Another thing I have to speak of,’ said Rhoneland, relaxing somewhat at the cordial tone of Ned’s feelings. ‘It is but a short time since I learnt the full extent of my obligations to you, for the part you took in unmasking the character of Rust, and in obtaining from him a disavowal of charges against me, which, false as they were, were hard indeed to bear, and were breaking me down. I have not finished,’ said he, raising his hand to prevent the interruption which Somers was endeavoring to make; ‘let me complete what I have to say, and you may speak as much as you like, afterward. I will not thank you, for thanks are but words, and too often mean nothing. Is there any thing that I can do, to lessen my indebtedness to you?—or is there any way in which I can pay it off altogether?’
He stopped, and looked earnestly in Ned’s face. The red blood dashed up to Somers’ very forehead, and he could scarcely breathe for the thumping of his heart, as the idea crossed him that now was the time to ask for Kate; nor was his agitation at all diminished by casting a glance at her, and seeing her cheeks crimson and her eyes downcast, as if she anticipated what was going on in his mind. It must be confessed, however, that had Rhoneland had no other clue to his wishes than that afforded by his words, he would have been very much in the dark; for although Ned attempted to speak out boldly, his lips trembled very much, and his voice was not as obedient as he could wish; and all that was distinctly audible was the girl’s name.
‘Why lad, what ails thee?’ asked Rhoneland, unbending, as he observed the embarrassment of his guest. ‘You used to be as bold as a lion. Come here Kate,’ said he to his daughter; ‘this young fellow has lost his voice; can you tell me what he wants?’
It was now Kate’s turn to grow confused, and the color to deepen on her cheek; nor did she utter a word.
‘Young man,’ continued Rhoneland, in a grave tone, ‘I did not send for you to trifle with your feelings. You love my daughter, and would ask for her, and you fear to do so lest the request should be refused. She is yours. Treat her kindly, and keep even a shadow of sorrow from falling upon her brow. If you do not, an old man’s curse will rest upon you; and even though I be dead, and mouldering in my grave, where my voice cannot reach you, that silent curse will follow you.’ He turned abruptly away, and left the room.
Ned Somers took Kate’s hand in his; passed his arm about her waist, and drew her to him in so singular a manner, that their lips could not but meet; and not only once, but at least some half-a-dozen times.
‘So you’re mine at last, Kate!’ said he, looking into her very eyes, whenever they were raised enough for him to do so. ‘Did I not tell you to cheer up; and that all would be well? Did I not say so; and wasn’t I right? And now, Kate,’ said he, in a less confident tone, ‘your father, though a most worthy old gentleman, is somewhat whimsical, and might change his mind; so when shall it be?’
Kate’s reply was so very low, that it reached no ears except those of Ned; but whatever it was, it is certain that on that day month they had been married a week, and were deep in preparations for a merry-making to be held on that very evening at Rhoneland’s old house, which had been so furbished up and renovated, under the auspices of the young couple, that every thing in it seemed to shine again. A party at Jacob Rhoneland’s! It was a thing unheard of, and produced quite a sensation in the drowsy part of the town where he lived. Never had a household been in such a fluster as his was. What deep consultations were held to prevent the old man—who seemed to have grown quite cheerful and light-hearted, and chirruped about the house like some gay old old cricket—from meddling in every thing, and to throw dust in his eyes, so as to make him suppose that he was having every thing in his own way, when in fact he was having nothing. And then what a time it took, and what entreaties, to prevail on him to let the great wooden chest, studded with brass nails, which he never took his eye from, be removed to an upper-chamber, to make room for their guests. But Harry Harson, who was in the thick of all the doings, in and out a dozen times in an hour; rubbing his hands and enjoying the bustle, giving advice, suggesting this thing and that, and setting every thing wrong; managed to get the great chest out of the way, for he dragged it up stairs under Rhoneland’s very nose, and in the teeth of his remonstrances; and depositing it in a little out-of-the-way room, very difficult of access, by reason of the angles and turns in the entry, and the size of the chest, told Rhoneland that if he wanted it below he might take it there himself; but that it was better where it was, and much more safe and out of the way; in which opinion Rhoneland finally coincided.
Betimes Kate came down stairs to receive her guests, looking so charmingly, and her eyes flashing with such malicious brightness, that on meeting her in the entry Ned stopped to kiss her, and tell her that she was looking ‘gloriously;’ a performance and observation by the way, which he had already repeated half-a-dozen times in the course of the last hour. By twos and threes the guests began to arrive, and went up stairs. There was a great clatter above, where they were taking off their things. It took a wonderful time to remove the hats and shawls; for although for a long time up they went, none came down. There must have been thirty assembled above stairs. At last Harry Harson, who was in the room with Ned and Kate, dressed in his best black suit, and looking as young and merry as any of them, vowed that he would not stand it, and sallied up stairs and sent them down in a drove. How bright and cheerful they all were! how the congratulations poured in upon Ned and Kate; and hopes for his future happiness, and that he might have a large fortune, and a large family to help him take care of it.
A loud scraping and jingling announced that the music was there, and put a stop to such flummery as conversation. The young folks were going into the business of the evening. The little stunted black fiddler with rings in his ears, was mounted on one chair; the big, fat fiddler, who fiddled with his eyes shut, was seated on another; and the goggle-eyed negro, with a self-satisfied face, who simpered on every body, and flourished the tambourine, was placed like an umbrella in the corner, to be out of the way.
The fat fiddler called out for the gentlemen to choose their partners for a quadrille. Then came the long premonitory screeching of the fiddle-bow across the cat-gut; then the slight, tremulous jingle of the tambourine, as if the goggle-eyed negro were dying to begin; then the bustling and hustling, and squeezing of the couples, until they had obtained their places in the dance. Then the scientific look of the fat fiddler, as he opened his eyes and surveyed the whole, to see that all was right; then the slight clearing of his throat, as he threw his head on one side, bellowed out ‘right and left,’ and forthwith plunged into the matter, might and main. Away he went, but fast and furious at his heels followed the little stunted fiddler; and loud above the din of both, rose the rattle of the tambourine. ‘Right hand across! forward two; balancez; ladies chain; forward four; dos-à-dos; chassez to the right; cross over; all round;’ here, there, every where, and all over—he was up to it all. In vain the dancers fairly flew; the fat fiddler was equal to all emergencies; he never lagged; he was sometimes too fast, but never—no, not for a single instant—was he behind.
‘Whew!’ said he, as he gave the final flourish of his bow, and laying it aside, wiped his forehead on his coat-sleeve, and called for a tumbler of cold water. And thereupon the stunted fiddler and the tambourine made the same request; the latter suggesting that his glass might be tempered with a ‘small spirt of gin,’ without hurting his feelings.
In that dance, the lightest step and merriest voice was that of Harson, who led out the bride, and footed it there with the best of them; and who through the whole evening was bustling around the room, with a kind word for every one, and as much at home as if the house, and the company, and even the bride, belonged to him. And in fact, one or two of the guests—but they were unsophisticated people from the country—were for some time under the delusion that Harry was the bridegroom, instead of the quiet young fellow who was seen walking about the rooms, talking to the disagreeable old women, and getting partners for the ugly young ones, without their knowing it; but all in such an unobtrusive manner that he seemed quite a nobody when compared with Harson.
But there must be an end even to the merriest meetings; and when they had kept it up until the night had got among the small hours, they began to drop off. And here, amid the adieus of departing guests, we will take our leave of the young couple; for it is far pleasanter to bid farewell to those whose friendship we have cherished when hope is strong and bright, than when care or disappointment has flung its shadow over their hearts.
CHAPTER THE LAST
A few weeks had elapsed, and a small group were gathered one evening at Harson’s fireside. It was composed of three persons beside Harson. The first was a man of about fifty; he might have been younger; and the heavy wrinkles which were scored across his forehead may have been the fruit of trouble and care, for they were almost too deep for his years; his mouth was firmly compressed, like that of one in the habit of mastering strong feelings; and the whole character of his face would have been stern, but for his dark, gray eye, which at times brightened up almost to childish playfulness. This was Mr. Colton, the father of Harson’s protegé, Annie. The child herself was seated on Harson’s knee, sound asleep, with her head resting on his breast. The only other person in the group was the wife of Mr. Colton. She was quite young, and had once possessed great beauty—the beauty of youth and happiness; but that was gone, and in its place was the patient look of one who had suffered much, and in silence. She spoke seldom, and in a low tone, so soft and musical that one regretted when the voice ceased.
‘Your letter,’ said Mr. Colton, in continuation of a previous conversation, ‘put an end to all my plans respecting my poor niece. I had hoped to assist her; for knowing her father’s hostility to her, I feared that she might be in want. Her death was a very melancholy one.’
He looked in the fire in deep thought, and for a short time a silence ensued which no one seemed inclined to break.
‘I never saw her,’ said his wife, after some moments; ‘I think you did.’
‘Yes, once—at the trial,’ replied he, uttering the last words with an effort, as if the subject were painful. ‘She was very beautiful.’
‘Did she resemble her father?’ inquired Mrs. Colton.
‘Perhaps I can settle that question more easily than any one,’ said Harson, rising up, ‘by letting you judge for yourself.’
He went to a small curtain which hung against the wall, and drawing it aside, disclosed a portrait of Rust’s daughter—the same which Rust had brooded over with such mingled emotions on the night previous to the murder. The same childlike, innocent smile, played round the small, dimpled mouth; the same calm, thoughtful expression of intellect mingled with gentleness, shone out of the eyes. All was as it was when father and child last looked upon it—the criminal and her accuser. Every line was unaltered; but where were they? Dust! They had acted their part on earth; their love, their hate, their fears, their remorse, were past. The tide of time was hurrying on, bringing life and death, and hopes and fears to others, but sweeping from the earth all trace of their footsteps. To them forever, aye even until the last trump, time and thought, and care and feeling, had no existence!
Mrs. Colton’s eyes filled with tears as she gazed upon the picture. ‘She deserved a happier fate,’ said she, in a subdued tone, as if she feared to disturb the spell which seemed to hang about it.
‘It was ordained for the best,’ replied Harson, in a grave tone, as he regarded the portrait with a kind of solemn interest. Then, after a moment, he added: ‘That was her, before want and suffering had laid their iron finger upon her. When I saw her, she was dead. She was very beautiful even then; but in the short time that had elapsed since her father’s imprisonment, the work of years had been performed; she seemed much older and thinner, and more care-worn.’
‘How did you get this?’ inquired Mr. Colton, pointing to the picture.
‘A friend of mine, the person who aided the girl in her last moments, accidentally learned that it was for sale, and begged me to buy it. He was too poor to do it, and I was willing to gratify him; and so the picture became mine.’
Mr. Colton looked at him for a few moments, as if on the point of making some remark, and then walked to the other end of the room and took a seat without a word. He was aroused by the child climbing on his knee, and putting her arms about his neck.
‘God protect you, my child!’ said he, laying his hand affectionately on her head; ‘may you never know the misery which has fallen upon that poor girl!’
The words were intended to be inaudible, but they reached the ear of his wife, who going up to him, and laying her hand on his arm, said in a low voice: ‘Come, come, George, do not give way to these feelings. You must not be gloomy.’
He looked at her sadly, and then placing his finger on his heart, said: ‘Is not what has been going on here, for years, enough to wither to the root every feeling of cheerfulness, so that it should never again put forth a blossom?’
‘Hush! hush!’ interrupted his wife, in a whisper; ‘if you have suffered, you have gained at last what you have always prayed for; while he, the one who caused it all, has paid the penalty of his misdeeds. Remember what his fate was.’ She pointed to the picture: ‘Remember too, the fate of his only child. George, George! his punishment has been terrible, even in this world!’
‘You are right, Mary—God forgive me! I’ll think of it no more. He and I were nursed in the same arms, and watched by the same fond mother. From the bottom of my heart I forgive him. It would be sacrilege to her memory, for me to harbor an unkind feeling toward even a stranger, if she had loved him.’
He was silent for a moment, and then addressing Harson, enquired:
‘Who is this Mr. Kornicker?’
‘A poor fellow, with little to help him through the world but careless habits and a good heart.’
‘What character does he bear?’ inquired the other.
‘Such as might be expected from his position,’ replied Harson; ‘full of flaws, but with a vein of gold running through it. Nature has given him fine feelings, and fortune, unluckily, has placed him in a situation where such feelings are impediments rather than otherwise. But he is a noble fellow for all that.’
‘Where can he be found?’ asked his guest.
Harson probably anticipated the object of this inquiry, for he said with a laugh:
‘He has been taken care of; he has been placed where the means of livelihood and competence are in his grasp, if he will but work for them. And what is better yet, he seems disposed to do so, although not much can be expected of him at first. I do not think,’ added he, ‘that it contributes to the happiness of a young man, with a long life before him, to be altogether idle. I will do all that I can to help him; but he must work. It will be more easy for him as he gets used to the traces.’
The stranger acquiesced in this remark, and then added: ‘I will take his address, nevertheless, for I must see him when I return to the city, which will be very shortly; but you seem to have anticipated me in every thing. Even the lawyer, Mr. Holmes, declined to be paid for his services. He said that this was not strictly a business matter, and that what he had done was out of friendship for you, and that I had better pocket the fee and drop the subject; at the same time, he said he was going to dinner, and asked me to join him, which I did, and a very pleasant time we had of it.’
A good-natured laugh was indulged at the peculiarities of the old lawyer, and many stories told of him, and of others who have figured in this history. Nor was it until the little clock over the mantel-piece seemed to give a very vehement wag of its pendulum as it struck twelve, and Spite, who had been asleep in the corner, bounced up, alarmed at the lateness of the night, and barked vociferously, that they dreamed of going to bed.
The strangers were Harson’s guests that night; and the old man, having escorted them to their room, and wished them good night, was himself soon in bed and asleep.
Bright and early the next morning, they were astir; for they were to leave the city, and Harson was up and ready to see them off. It was a fine morning; the trees were just beginning to put forth their spring leaves, and the grass in the public squares was looking quite fresh and green, as they drove down to the wharf, where the steamer lay, whizzing and puffing, and groaning as if in mortal pain, and tugging at its cable like some shackled sea-monster struggling to escape to its home in the deep. Early as it was, crowds were hurrying to and fro; carts driving up and unloading; porters staggering along with trunks and bales on their shoulders; carriages dashing up at a gallop, filled with people afraid of being too late, and going off more leisurely after the passengers were deposited on the wharf. People were bustling hither and thither, elbowing their way to one place, merely to find out where to elbow it to the next; friends were bidding each other adieu; and in particular, a stout lady from the country, in yellow ribbons, from the upper part of the boat was sending a confidential message to her family and friends by a gentleman who stood in the crowd some sixty yards off.
Through this throng the coach containing our friends drove, and just in good time, for as they stepped on board, the last bell rang.
‘All aboard!’ shouted the captain; ‘take in the plank.’
Harson shook hands with his friends. ‘God bless thee, my child!’ said he, pressing Annie in his arms. The next moment he stepped on shore; and the boat glided from the dock, and shot out upon the green water.
‘Ah, Annie!’ said the old man, as he stopped waving his hand, and turned away from the river, ‘I had hoped that you would have been mine own as long as I lived; but it’s all right as it is. Your brother,’ added he, ‘I did not miss much, when his parents took him, but you had become a part of my home. Well, well!’
No doubt there was a great deal of hidden consolation in these last words; for Harson’s face soon recovered its usual cheerful character, and he steadily trudged toward his home.
A few words respecting the other characters, and our task is ended.
Grosket was induced by Mr. Colton to remove to the country, where an intercourse with different and better men than those with whom he had hitherto associated tended in a great measure to soften his character, and temper his fierce passions—the offspring of persecution and suffering.
Mrs. Blossom, at first alarmed by the fear of the law, grew penitent and rigorous in the discharge of her moral obligations to society; but the Law being a notorious sleepy-head, and never appearing to have its eyes open, she gradually fell into her old habits, reöpened her ‘seminary for lambs;’ and from the great quantity of her disciples which frequent the thoroughfares of the city at present, I should judge is getting along prosperously. Mr. Snork was extremely desirous of becoming a partner in the concern, and made several overtures to that effect, which might have been accepted by the lady, had he not objected to being deprived of his eye-sight, and seated at a corner to receive pennies from passers-by. It was in vain that the lady represented to him that this would be the making of their respective fortunes; that blind beggars, particularly if they were remarkably disgusting, as was the case with him, had been known to retire with handsome fortunes, and that some of them even bought snug little farms in the country, and kept a horse and ‘shay.’ Mr. Snork however, was obstinate; his proposals were accordingly rejected, and he returned disconsolately to his abode, which was now lonely, his wife having paid a visit to the penitentiary, for the benefit of the country air.
