Hagar :: :: University of Virginia Library

Left alone in the little chamber to which he was
shown, the strange gentleman took up the lamp,
daintily, and elevating it somewhat, turned slowly
from side to side, until he had given the room a
careful survey. Of a simple and humble order was
the furniture, but there was enough of it for necessity,
and strict cleanliness was observable at a glance.
Nevertheless, the guest seemed doubtful still, and
folding down the snowy counterpane, he examined
the linen of the bed with a close scrutiny.

“The parlor of a country spinster!” he said,
speaking to himself; and violently ringing, he ordered
an additional ewer of water, and fresh sheets,
taking care to dust a chair with his pocket hand-while

the servant was in waiting. On the
table beside the bed lay a small leathern-bound
volume, and glancing at the title, the young man
hastily put it down, and leaning his head against
the back of the high wooden rocking chair in which
he sat, leisurely untied his white neckcloth, and
carelessly dropped it on the floor beside him. He
then took from a pocket-book a letter, and unfolding
it to tear off part of the blank leaf, a long tress of
golden hair slid from its folds and fell on the floor,
where it remained until he had made some memoranda,
in pencil, when, taking it up, he held it over
the flame, smiling as it wreathed, curled aside, then
caught fire, and blazed, and fell in ashes.

Meantime the host rejoined the two persons whom
he had left at the card table, and who had by this
time drawn near the hearth. The younger was a
harmless slip of the moneyed aristocracy of the
commercial metropolis, resting his right foot upon
his left knee, and with eyes—blue and always full
of sleepy good humor—now nearly closed. He was
listening indolently to his companion, who, as the
hour grew later, became more voluble.

This person it would have been hard to describe
as belonging to any particular country, being a specimen
of a tribe found everywhere. He might have
been twenty-five years of age, and was of dark,
swarthy complexion, large dull hazel eyes, brown

hair, thick and straight, parted on a forehead of
medium hight, and had the ends of his hair carefully
turned in against his neck, and to either
cheek. His beard, which was very heavy, and
worn full, was a mixture of grayish auburn and
black. His dress was half slovenly, half genteel,
and his bones seemed to have been made for some
other person, being a great deal too large for him,
especially in the joints. The hands and fingers
were covered thickly with black and sorrel hairs,
resembling his beard.

To be different from other persons he fancied was
to be superior to them, and in consequence he was
full of affectations.

He also delighted in a pompous sort of self-display.
Herein perhaps was his forte, and he
never allowed a fit occasion to pass without an
exhibition of his abilities in this art of, what his
familiars called, showing off. His chief pride was
to be thought a famous hunter (Heaven knows
whether he had ever slain bird or beast more
formidable than pigeon or rabbit), and a man of
invincible courage; he knew nothing more charming
than a surprise, however disagreeable to his
victim, or to startle the feelings or shock the prejudices
of those with whom he chanced at any time
to be in conversation; and he had the inconvenient
infirmity of a great fondness for money, while

poor, and without energy, or any definite aim in
life.

He was always associated with some person of
larger means and less wit than himself; and, just
now, the sufferer was Frederick Wurth. They had
casually met, and this man, whose name was Joseph
Arnold, fastened himself upon the young metropolitan,
as the ragged weed will cling to a fine
fleece; and he was gradually obtaining an influence
over him, of which Wurth was by no means aware;
but if he had been, all would have been the same;
and so long as he had five shillings, Arnold could
have had three of them; not that one was very
weak, or the other at all crafty; Wurth was constitutionally
easy, good-humored, and indolent; and
being an heir of wealth, and never having known
any suffering or misfortune, the angles of his character
were not sharpened and brought out, as they
might have been under other influences. And
Arnold had probably never marked out for himself
any line of conduct, for good or for evil; if chance
threw an advantage in his way he was not scrupulous
in availing himself of it; but he did not coolly,
and with intelligent forecast, devise the means by
which any advantage should be secured. His character,
however, and that of the other persons in
this history, will be sufficiently developed as we
proceed.

On the entrance of the landlord, Arnold, who
had repeatedly said his best things to Wurth, and
cared not to waste words on an old listener, when
he could have a fresh one, making room for him by
the fire, asked if it were nearly breakfast time.

The good man looked puzzled, as no doubt he
really was, and taking from his trowsers pocket a
large silver watch, he said it was lacking thirteen
minutes of twelve o'clock, and in his hotel they
didn't breakfast at midnight.

Arnold opened his eyes, combed his beard with
his fingers, shook his head doubtfully, and remarked,
“I believe you are right; but I had
forgotten all about the time, and seeing you, supposed
you up for morning; but if it's only midnight
I must wake up. How is the weather—
clear and shining? I don't care much for such
nights; they do well enough for coons, and such
small game; but give me a dark, rainy night, for
a hunt.”

“Just the night for you, then,” said the host:
“it's as dark as Egypt. A man could not see his
hat three inches before his face; and hark, how the
rain beats against the window!”

“Sure enough,” replied Arnold, as if for the first
time aware of the storm. “It's just the sort of
night I like—first rate for a buffalo hunt. I should
like to be on the prairie to-night, forty, or fifty, or

a hundred miles from a settlement, with my dogs
and rifle. I would not like better sport.”

After the astonishment of the landlord had sufficiently
subsided, the young Nimrod inquired what
business that gentleman of the cloth appeared to
have, in so obscure a village, adding that he should
not be surprised if some of the best horses were
missing in the morning.

But now that the parson was out of hearing, the
landlord readily joined in the laugh against him;
so the young man had no object in proceeding further
on that tack.

“Seriously,” he said—and for once he spoke as
he thought—“I don't like the looks of that man.
There is more in his cold gray eyes than may be
seen at a glance; and then his sweet, low tone, and
gliding step (did you notice how like a cat he walked?)
never belonged to an honest man.”

The host expressed some sort of acquiescence,
but in truth he had not noticed these peculiarities
at all; and Arnold continued, as if thinking aloud—
“I wonder what he is doing in these parts. I'll
wager my life it's—”

“I know,” said Gaius, who did not like to have
any one seem wiser than himself; “I know what he
comes for.”

“Well, what is it?”

“There is a consumptive lady in the south end

of the town; these long autumn rains take off such
persons mighty fast, sir, and I shall not be surprised,
any day, to hear of her death. Just before you
arrived, sir, I saw a young man riding along with a
measure in his hand, and I thought it was for Mary's
coffin, poor girl; but it was for old grandfather
Mapes's, who has had the palsy these seven years;
and yet, it was a sudden death. He walked in the
garden yesterday and looked better than he had
done for months, and this morning he got up seeming
as well as usual, and ate venison for breakfast,
and it tasted better to him, he said, than any thing
had for a long while. About noon he complained
a little of drowsiness, but none of them thought any
thing of it; he had often been affected in that way;
and about two o'clock, as he was sitting and talking
with his sister, he put his hand up to his head, and
she thought he might be faint or something, and
started into the next room to get camphor, or water
—I don't know which—and before she got to the
door, sir, he just fell on the floor as dead as a hammer.”

A smile, that was half a sneer, came over the face
of Arnold, as he said, “Then this clergyman has
come to preach the funeral of grandfather Mapes,
you suppose?”

“No, sir, that was not my supposition, sir. The
funeral will be held in the old church, just above

my stand, and the pastor will preach it; for the old
man was one of the communicants. He has gone
to the world of spirits, sir; gone to the world of
spirits; there is where old grandfather Mapes has
gone.” And the good man compressed his lips and
seemed to feel that a wise thing had been delivered
by him.

But other eyes than the poet's do glance from
earth to heaven, from heaven to earth, and coming
to his more habitual thought, he said, “If the roan
colt is put up at the vandue I will bid as high a
price as any man in the village.”

“Likely the colt will be up at the vendue,” replied
Arnold, as though the chattels of the dead man were
familiar to him, and to conceal his mirth he bent
down and caressed a huge brown dog, that sat erect,
though with closed eyes, at his knee. Looking up
however after a moment, he said, “You spoke of a
consumptive lady—this man in the white neckcloth
visits her, you think?”

“He has been to my house several times, pays
liberally for his fare, and asks no questions, so of
course I ask none; but he walks to the south somewhere,
and stays till a late hour sometimes, and I
don't know where he would be more likely to go—
but he will hardly come again. Mary is a doomed
girl, sir; a doomed girl. Her brother left home
yesterday,” he continued, “though she entreated him

to stay, and I doubt if he ever sees her alive. It's
a dreadful thing for the well and strong to slight the
wishes or premonitions of the sick, sir.”

Drops of sweat broke over the white forehead of
the young man who had seemed asleep; he pushed
aside the brown glossy curls that had fallen over
his eyes, rose, uneasily, and going to the window
looked a moment on the storm, when, buttoning
his coat, he ordered his horse and carriage.

“Do you think, Fred,” said Arnold, affecting not
to notice his preparations for departure, “that this
clerical rascal we have seen here, comes to visit a
consumptive lady?”

The young man rejoined, indifferently, that he
didn't know, and his friend continued: “I'll be
hanged if I don't believe he comes to see some
pretty girl, hereabouts, that is not consumptive.
But what do you mean, Fred? Are you crazy, to
go out into the storm?”

“I ought to go,” he replied. “I am neglecting
business, and the rain will not hurt me. With
hard driving I may be at home by eight in the
morning. Don't forget me, Jo, when you come to
town.”

“Stop,” said Arnold, taking hold of his arm;
“stop, and hear reason. You see this rain would
be likely to wet you, Fred, if you should be in it
for three or four hours; besides, it will be lighter

when the sun comes up. The short time can't
make much difference in your interests. Stop till
daylight. We will have some coffee, and something
a little stronger, if you like, and I will ride
down with you. Come, come, Fred, don't sail out
dead in the eye of the storm. You see the white
cravat will be in the morning coach, and I am
afraid of the cloth.”

The young man hesitated, ashamed to reveal his
real motive for departure, and aware that he could
not urge the validity of that stated, which indeed
was far less imperative than another, which should
have detained him at home, or made him hasten
to return, though opposed by flood or fire. The
vantage ground was improved, and Arnold countermanded
the order which his friend had given,
and had now too little force of character to have
executed, saying, to quiet his conscience, “I don't
know as we could see to drive—not well, certainly.”

“Well,” said Arnold, “I shouldn't think we
could see at all.”

“No, we couldn't see at all.” And, unbuttoning
his coat, the unquiet Wurth sat down by the fire.

Directions were given for an early breakfast,
Arnold incidentally remarking, to the gaping landlord,
that he would like a black snake served up
with vinegar, and that his friend would have a
chop and potatoes.

“I like to scare such fellows,” he said, as the
host withdrew. “While you were asleep,” he continued,
“the old chap talked so like a simpleton
that he made my head ache; and I just told him
that I'd put him out of his own house, if he kept
on. I wouldn't give two cents for such a man.”

“Yes, just about two,” replied Wurth. “But
come, let's to bed.”