 | CHAPTER VIII. Clarence, or, A tale of our own times |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
And with my child, my joys are buried!”
Romeo and Juliet.
Mr. Clarence returned to his home at a late
hour in the afternoon, in a state of mind in which
there was nothing to be envied but a consciousness
of rectitude. For six months his righteous claim
had been suspended, and by the interposition of
Winstead Clarence, that man, who, of all the world
ought not to have profited by the fortune of his injured
relative; and now, when Mr. Clarence had
flattered himself that all uncertainty was about to
end, his reputation had become involved with his
fortune, and both were in jeopardy. He had
never coveted riches; neither his day nor his
night dreams had been visited with the sordid
vision of wealth. He had had the good sense
and firmness never to attempt to conceal, or forget,
or cause to be forgotten, the degraded condition
of his childhood; and he now thought there
was a species of injustice, a peculiar hardship in
his suffering the reproach and consequences of
these vulgar passions, and disquietudes. It was
true, that since he had known himself to be the heir
of wealth, the exemptions and privileges of fortune
had obtained a new value in his eyes. His usual
occupations and pleasures had lost their interest in
the anticipation of elegant leisure, refined pursuits,
objects.
There was a feeling too, not uncommon when
any thing extraordinary and peculiar occurs in our
own experience; a feeling of the interposition of
Heaven in our behalf; a communication with Providence;
an intimate revelation of his will, and
his concurrence in our strongest and secret
wishes. Mr. Clarence' ruling sentiment was his
parental affection; his children appeared to him,
and really were, highly gifted. His boy had been
the instrument, as far as human agency was concerned,
of the singular turn in the tide of his fortunes,
and he had regarded him as distinguished by
the signal favor of heaven, and destined to gratify
his honorable ambition. These had been his high
and happy visions; but he had been harassed by
suspense and delay, and he was now beset with unexpected
dangers, and tormented with unforeseen
anxieties.
After the adjournment of the court, he had
passed some hours with his lawyers in balancing
the chances for and against him, and had pretty
well ascertained their opinion of the desperateness
of his cause. As he entered his house he met his
little girl, Gertrude, in the entry. She bounded
towards him, exclaiming, “Good news! good news!
dear father!”
“What news? what have you heard, Gertrude?”
“I have received the first prize in my class,”
and glowing with the emotion she expected to excite,
she drew from beneath her apron a prize-book,
bright in new morocco and gilding.
“Pshaw!” exclaimed her father, “I thought
you”—had heard some news from the jury, he
was going to add; but he suppressed the last half
of the sentence, half-amused and half-vexed at his
own weakness. He then, almost unconsciously,
kissed the little girl, and turning from her, paced
the room with an air of abstraction and anxiety.
“You don't seem at all delighted, father,” said
the disappointed child, “I am sure I don't know
the reason why; you used to seem so pleased when
I only got the medal.”
Her father made no reply, and a few moments
after Frank came limping into the room. Mr.
Clarence turned short on him, “A pretty piece of
blundering work you made of it in court, Mr.
Frank, how came you to disgrace yourself and me
in that manner?”
“Oh, father, I was so horribly frightened, and
besides, sir, you know I felt sick.”
“Sick! what ailed you?”
“Father, have you forgotten that I run a nail
into my foot yesterday?—I have not been well
since.”
“My dear boy, I beg your pardon; but I have
had concerns of so much more moment on my hands.
If your foot still pains you, go and ask your mother
to poultice it.”
“Mother has gone to Brooklyn. She said she
should get a nervous fever, if she staid at home
waiting for the decision of the cause.”
“Well, go to Tempy; she will do it as well.”
“Tempy has gone to Greenwich, to speak to her
brother about coming to live with us, for mother
we get the cause.”
“Have a little patience, Frank, I am going to
Doctor Eustace's, and I will ask him to step over
and look at your wound.” Mr. Clarence snatched
up his hat and went to Doctor Eustace's; but in
his deep interest in discussing the occurrences of
the day with his friend, he forgot the apparently
trifling malady of his boy.
“Gertrude,” said Frank, as his father shut the
door, “don't you wish our grandfather had not
left father any money?”
“No, indeed, I don't wish any such thing. But
why do you ask me, Frank? I am sure it is all
the same, since he has not got it.”
“No it is not all the same, by a great deal, Gertrude.
Don't you see how different father has been
ever since: he does not play to us and talk to us as
he used to; he never helps me with my lessons; he
always seems to be thinking, and every body is
talking to him about the cause; and mother, too,
she seems more different than father.”
“How do you mean, Frank?”
“Why, she always used to be at home, and had
something pleasant for us when we came from
school, and so forth; but now she is always talking
about how we are going to live, and what she is
going to buy when we get the cause.”
“Oh, but Frank, we shall have such pleasant
times then; mother says so. She says we shall be
richer than cousin Anne! and I shall have a piano;
and we shall keep a carriage of our own; and
we shall have every thing we wish—and that
know.”
“Oh, dear me! all I should wish if I had Aladdin's
lamp, would be for somebody to cure my foot.
Can't you be my good Genius, Gertrude?” said the
poor boy, with a forced smile.
“Yes, Frank. Just stretch your leg out on the
sofa, and lay your head in my lap, and I will read
to you a beautiful Arabian tale out of my prize-book.
You will forget the pain in a few minutes.”
The sweet oblivious draught administered by his
sister's soothing voice, operated like a charm.
Frank's attention was rivetted, and though he now
and then startled Gertrude with a groan, he would
exclaim in the next breath, “Go on—go on!” She
continued to read till he fell asleep. Neither his
father nor mother returned till a late hour in the
evening.
Early next morning it was known to all persons
interested in the cause, that the jury were still in solemn
conclave, and it was rumored that they were
nearly unanimous in favor of the plaintiff. Those
who understood the coercive power of watching and
fasting over unanimity of opinion, predicted that the
verdict would be forthcoming at the opening of the
court.
It is an admitted fact, that notwithstanding the
precautions that are taken to maintain the secresy of
a jury's deliberations; notwithstanding the officer
who attends them, and who is their sentinel, locks
them in their apartment, and is sworn neither to hold
nor permit communication with them; the state of
their opinions does marvellously get abroad. What
is the satisfactory solution of this mystery to those
of curiosity and communication?
At the opening of the court, the court-room was
crowded as if a judicial sentence were about to be
passed upon a capital offender, but by a different
and higher class of persons. Some were attracted
by the desire to see how Mr. Clarence would receive
the annunciation of the ruin of his hopes; how he and
his friend Dr. Eustace would endure the consequent
dishonor. These were disappointed, for neither of
these gentlemen were any where to be seen. Gerald
Roscoe too was absent—he who the day before
had so boldly scorned every opinion unfavorable
to Mr. Clarence. There could be no coup de
theatre without the presence of these parties. The
general conclusion was, that they were too well apprised
of the probable result to meet it in the public
eye.
The proper officer announced that the jury were
ready to present their verdict. They were accordingly
conducted to their box, and the foreman arose
to pronounce their verdict for the plaintiff, when he
was interrupted by a noise and altercation at the
door, and Gerald Roscoe entered, and pressed impatiently
forward. He was followed in the lane he
made by an old woman, who seemed utterly regardless
of the dignity of the presence she was in, looked
neither to the right nor left, and elbowed her way as
if she had been in a market-house. The young
man cast one anxious glance back to see she followed,
and then sprang forward and whispered to Mr.
Clarence' counsel. This gentleman was electrified
by the communication; but he was anxious not to
coolness begged the suspension of the verdict, and
the indulgence of the court for a moment. His
young friend, Mr. Gerald Roscoe, he said, had
found a witness whose testimony might have an important
bearing on the case.
Rider interrupted him. He was astonished at
such an application. The gentleman must be aware
that it was utterly inadmissible; he seemed to have
forgotten all legal rules, and all his judicial experience.
Had he taken counsel of the unfledged youth
who was certainly a most extraordinary volunteer in
the defendant's cause? The young man's impertinent
obtrusion of his sympathies on the preceding
day had deserved reproof; he trusted his honor the
Judge would not pass by this gross violation of the
decorum of that tribunal.
Roscoe's boyish, slightly-knit frame seemed to dilate
into the stature of manhood, as he cast an indignant
glance at Rider, whose eye fell before him, and
then turning to the court, he said, “I pray the Judge
to inflict on me any penalty I may have incurred
even in that man's opinion,” pointing to Rider, “by
my unrepressed sympathy with integrity; but I entreat
that my fault may not prejudice Mr. Clarence'
cause.”
“It shall not,” said Rider's associate counsel,
willing to humor what he considered the impotent
zeal of the youth. “I pray your honor that the
new witness may be heard. In the present state of
our cause, we have nothing to fear from the machinations
of this young counsellor—our beardless brother
will scarcely untie our gordian knot.”
The judge interposed. “This is somewhat irregular,
but as the counsel on both sides consent, let
the witness be sworn.” She was so.
“Be good enough to tell us your name, Mistress,”
said Mr. Clarence' counsel.
“Olida Quackenboss.”
“You keep a lodging-house in William-street,
Mrs. Quackenboss?”
“You may call it what you like; it's my own
house, and I take in a decent body or two now and
then, as sarves my own convenience.”
“Did a man, calling himself Smith, die at your
house last April?”
“No, he died there the thirtieth day of March;”
then, in an under voice, and counting on her fingers,
`Thirty days hath September,' and so on—“No,
no but, it was the thirty-first of March.”
“That is immaterial, good woman.”
“What for did you ask me then?”
“Because I wanted to ask you further, if you
knew any thing of a certain purse, which this man,
calling himself Smith, died possessed of?”
“Yes, do I; and the lad there,” pointing, or rather
jerking her elbow, towards Gerald Roscoe,
“laid down ten dollars to answer for it, if any of
you wronged me out of it; and that would not be as
good as the purse, for it's got Smit's luck-penny in it.”
“How came you by it, Mrs. Quackenboss?”
“Honestly, man.”
“No doubt; but did Smith give it to you?”
The old woman grinned a horrible smile. “Are
you a born-fool, man, to think Smit, a sensible
body, would give away money like your thriftless
Why look here, man;” and she thrust her
arm to the almost fathomless abyss of her pocket,
and brought up an old sometime snuff-box, which
she opened, took from it the purse, undrew the
string, and piece by piece dropped into her hand,
the half jo, the Spanish dollar, the English pennies,
and the lucky sixpence, specified in Smith's document.
“All this was in it, good money as ever rung
on a counter.”
“Then it was paid to you as due from Smith,
was it?”
“Not that neither; Smit paid his own dues; all
but a week's hire of the place, that run up against
him, poor man, while he lay sick and arning nothing.
But leave me be; I'll just tell you how it
was. You see, the man that they call the public
administrator came to take Smit's strong box, and
he said the money was all to go into the public chist;
and right glad was I it was to be locked up, and not
go to any heirs, to be blown away with a blast like
the leaves that's been all summer a growing. And
so when this man that they call the administrator
came, I helped him fetch the box from the garret,
and he looked round poor Smit's room upon his
clothes that were hanging about as if they were but so
many cobwebs dangling there, and he said to me,
`You may keep these duds—they'll serve you for
dusting cloths.' I asked him, `Do you mean I shall
keep them, and all that's in them?' and he said
`Yes;' and to make sure, I called in a witness, and
he said `Yes' again. And then I shut and locked
the door after us; for I knew of the purse, that
straight back and got it, and it has not seen the
light since till the lad came this morning; and now
no man, nor lawyer either, dare to take from me
what's honestly mine own. And now ye may take
one look at it; it's just as good as when his granny
knit it for him, with them words in it—next to a gospel
verse are they—`a penny saved is a penny gained;'
and if ye'd all hare to it, especially yon gay-looking
younkers, ye'd have mighty less need of
your courts, and your judges, and your lawyers, and
your jails. Now you have my word and my counsel,
ye may let me go.”
“Stop one moment, Mrs. Quackenboss. Who
apprised the public administrator that Smith had
left the money?”
“He told me one Mr. Carroll had sent him
there.”
The truth of the miser's document was now
attested, and the evidence, of course, conclusive in
Mr. Clarence' favor. All, who had watched the
progress of the trial, remembered that he might
have rested a claim to the miser's money, on the
declaration of his manuscript; and his delicacy and
disinterestedness in avoiding to do so swelled the
tide that was setting in his favor. Murmurs of
honest joy, at the triumph of innocence, ran through
the court-room. The counsel for the plaintiff
rose; `he had nothing, he said, to allege in answer
to the last witness. He was himself convinced,' he
magnanimously added, `of the validity of the defendant's
claim to the name and fortune of the late
Edmund Clarence, Esquire.'
“Ye're right, your honor, ye're right,” cried a
voice that made breathless every other in the court-room,
“and didn't I tell ye, Lawyer Rider, didn't
I tell ye that I heard Clarence that's dead tell him
that's living, that he was his own father's son;
didn't I tell ye so, Lawyer Rider?—spake man.”
But Rider did not speak. He had no portion of
the warm-heartedness of the poor misguided Irishman.
He could not throw himself on the wave of
generous sympathy, and forget it might engulf him.
Both the offenders were ordered into custody,
and both subsequently punished. Rider with the
heaviest, Conolly the most lenient infliction the law
permitted.
Nothing now remained but for the jury to make
out their formal verdict. As soon as this was done,
Gerald Roscoe, to whose thought and ingenuity
the happy issue of the cause was owing, rushed
from the court-room to be the bearer of the happy
tidings to Mr. Clarence. He ran breathless to
Barclay-street. His glad impatience could not
brook the usual formalities. The street door was
open. He entered—he flung open the parlor-door;
no one was there. He heard footsteps in the room
above; he sprang up stairs, threw wide open the
door, and the joyful words seemed of themselves to
leap from his lips, “It's yours—it's yours, Mr.
Clarence!”
Not a sound replied—not an eye was lifted.
Silence, and despair, and death, were there; and
the words fell as if they had been uttered at the
mouth of the tomb. Where were now all the
hopes, and fears, and calculations, and projects,
hearts?
Where was that restless, biting anxiety, that
awaited the decision of the cause as if it involved
life and happiness? Gone—forgotten; or if it for
a moment darted through the memory, it was as the
lightning flashes through the tempest, to disclose
and make more vivid all its desolation!
What was wealth? what all the honor the world
could render to that father on whose breast his only
beloved son was breathing out his last sigh? What to
the mother who was gazing on the glazed, motionless,
death-stricken eye of her boy? What to the poor
little girl whose burning cheek was laid to the
marble face of her brother, whose arms were clasped
around him as if their grasp would have detained
the spirit within the bound of that precious body?
The flushed cheek of the messenger faded. His
arms that a moment before had been extended with
joy, fell unstrung beside him; and he remained
awe-struck and mute till the physician who stood
bending over the foot of the bed, watching the sufferer
for whom his art was impotent, moved round
to his side, and bending over him, uttered those
soul-piercing words, “he is gone!”
Gerald Roscoe closed the door, and with slow
footsteps, and a beating heart, returned to the bustling
court-room.
| CHAPTER VIII. Clarence, or, A tale of our own times | |