University of Virginia Library

7. VII.
IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN.

Walter Scott.

The same night on which Mortimer was writing
in the books of Flint & Snarle, Mr. Flint sat
in the library of his bachelor home, sipping a glass
of vino d'oro; and as the bells of Trinity Church
fell faintly on his ear, he drew a massive gold
watch from his fob, and, patting it complacently
on the back, scrutinized its face as if he would
look it out of countenance. Then he yawned a
couple of times and thought of bed.

“There's a gintleman without, sur,” said Michel,
putting his comical head in at the library door,

“there's a gintleman without, sur,” and he emphasized
the `gintleman.'

“What sort of a person, Michel?”

“A very quare one indade. `Is Mr. Flint in?'
sez he. `He is sur,' sez I. `I want to see him,'
sez he. `Your kard, sur,' sez I. He stared at me
a minit, and laughed. Then, sez he, without the least
riverence for your worship, `Give this to owld Flint!”
And Michel, exploding with laughter, handed Flint
a knave of clubs very much soiled.

“Michel!” said Mr. Flint, drawing himself up to
his full altitude, “kick him down the steps!”

“Thanks!” said a voice directly behind Michel,
who had retreated to the doorway. The voice was
so near and unexpected that Michel's crisp hair
stood on end with fright.

The door was thrown wide open, and a fine
looking man, with the bearing of a sailor, stood
between them. Mr. Flint turned as white as his
immaculate shirt-bosom; and Michel, whose love
of fun had got the better of his scare, regarded
the intruder with a quizzical, inquiring air, peculiarly
Irish.

“Michel,” said Mr. Flint, “you may go.”

That gentleman, not expecting such an order,
hesitated.

“Yes, sur.”

“Michel,” said the stranger, “your master speaks
to you.”

“Sure I heard him, sur.”

Michel left the room and carefully closed the
door after him; but Flint, who knew his inquiring
proclivities, opened it suddenly, and found
Michel on all fours with his ear to the key-hole.
The door was opened so unexpectedly that the
listener did not discover the fact for the space of
ten seconds. When he looked up and beheld his
master, the intense expression of his face was superbly
ludicrous. To say that he shot to the subterranean
regions of the kitchen like a flash of
lightning, does not border on fiction.

The man laughed—it was a low, peculiar laugh,
sadder than some men's tears.

“Flint!”

“Well.”

“Are you glad to see me?” and the man repeated
his laugh.

“No: you are a devil!”

“I have been away three years, as I promised you.”

“Well, what do you want?”

“Money.”

“Have I ever seen you when you did not?”

“No, Flint, you never did. But you saw me
once when I had an unstained soul—when I could
have looked up to Heaven and said, `I am poor,
Father, but I am honest.' Have you enough

money to pay for a lost soul? Oh Flint, I am a
wrecked man! If it had only been murder—if I
had killed a man in the heat of passion—but a
poor innocent babe in the cold snow! The child!
the little babe! Ah, Flint, I never see the white
snow coming down but I think of it. Those eyes
are always with me. They follow me out to sea.
They haunt me in the long watches. One night,
when a storm had torn our rigging to tatters, and
we heard the breakers on the lee-shore, I saw
her standing by the binnacle light, and, so help
me Heaven! she had grown to be a woman. I fainted
at the wheel. You heard of the shipwreck.
How could a ship keep clear of the rocks and the
helmsman in a trance? Forty souls went down,
down! Hist! who said that? Not I. No, not I!
I am a maniac!”

“Don't go on that way,” pleaded Snarle, giving
uneasy looks toward the door, which he regretted
having locked.

“Why?”

“It is not pleasant.”

“What isn't?”

“Your eyes—your words. What can I do for
you?”

The man's excitement lulled for a moment. He
replied, carelessly:

“I am not a chameleon; I cannot live on air;
I can earn no money. The elements are against
me—storms and shipwrecks follow me....... I have
not found him yet,” he said, abruptly.

“Who?”

“My boy.”

Flint turned aside his head, and laughed quietly.

“I am tired of searching for him,” said the man,
sorrowfully. “I am not going to sea any more.”
After a pause—“I wish to live among the fishermen
off Nantucket. You ask me what I want?”

“Yes.”

“I want two or three hundred dollars to fit up
a fishing-smack. Give me this, and I will not trouble
you again. God knows I don't want to look on
your face!”

“And the letter—will you give me the letter?”

“Yes; when I take the money.”

The man drew from his bosom several letters,
and selected one more worn and crumpled than
the rest.

Flint's eyes fed upon it.

“Of course,” said Flint, “I have not such an
amount in the house. I have a hundred dollars
up stairs, and will give you a check for the remainder.
Will that do?”

“No and yes; but get the money, and I'll see.”

Flint left him alone. From a safe in his bedchamber

he took a small bag of gold, and caressed
it for a moment very much as one's grandmother
would a pet cat; then he filled up a check, and
called Michel.

“Run to the police station, Michel, and tell Captain
L.—to send me three or four men.”

Michel shot down stairs, and his master followed
him leisurely, patting the gold-bag lovingly at every
other step.

“Does he think,” said Flint's visitor to himself,
as the library door closed—“can he think I would
part with this paper? He, so full of worldly shrewdness,
so simple?”

After awhile the door opened.

“There!” gasped Flint, placing the bag on the
table before the man; “the letter! the letter!”

The stranger carelessly threw a rumpled paper
toward Flint, who grasped it convulsively. His
hand touched a bell-rope, and before the bell had
ceased tinkling, a heavy measured tramp came
through the entry. Four policemen entered the room
in single file, with Michel behind them making comical
efforts to keep step.

“Arrest him!” cried Flint, hoarse with passion and
triumph, “he has extorted money from me!”

“Flint,” said the man, walking toward him, “you
know that's a lie!”

Mr. Flint retreated behind the policeman.

“This person,” he cried, “is a stranger to me; he
forced his way into my house and has threatened my
life. Arrest him quickly, for he is no doubt armed!”

“Gentlemen,” said the stranger, turning to the officers,
“Mr. Flint, I fear, has given you useless trouble.
Michel, more glasses!”

At this, that astonished individual went off like a
rocket.

“For the love you bear your good name,” Mr.
Flint, he continued, “look at the paper which you
so innocently put in your pocket.”

An idea struck Flint, which caused him to turn
pale. He tore open the letter; but it was not the
one for which he would have given half his fortune.
Oh! sagacious, wily, clear-sighted Mr. Flint!

“You had better tell these gentlemen that you
have made a mistake, Flint. But, before they go,
they must have a glass of wine.”

Michel had failed to appear with the extra glasses;
but the want of them was elegantly supplied by
three silver goblets which stood on the beaufait.
And poor, collapsed Flint! he could only bid the
officers go, with a wave of his hand.

They were alone.

The sailor, with a scornful curl in his lip, stood by
the chair of the merchant, whose dejected countenance,

taken in connection with his white cravat,
was delightfully comical.

“Flint,” commenced the man, “your verdancy is
refreshing. Your sweet and child-like simplicity is
like a draught of your old wine — it's rare, it's
rare.”

If anything touched Flint, it was sarcasm. He
stood in dread of ridicule, as most men do whose
foibles and vices deserve lashing.

“Edward Walters!” he cried, springing to his feet
“you have outwitted me. Well, you are a knave; it
is your pride to be one. Your companions will
shout to-night, in some obscure den of this city,
as you tell them of your ingenuity, and you will be a
hero among —”

“Stop, John Flint! For sixteen years to-night
my life has been as pure as a child's. The vices of
passion and avarice have not touched me. I have
borne a sorrow in my heart which shrunk instinctively
from sin. During these years I have been
poor, very poor.” The man paused. “There is a
link lost somewhere in my life—was I an age in a
madhouse? Let it go. I have loved my fellowman;
I have lingered at the hammock of a sick
mess-mate, and closed his eyes kindly when he died;
I have spoken words of cheer when my heart was
bitterness. I do not say this boastfully, for God's

eyes are upon us all. I have done these things to
atone for the one great sin of my life, which has
stalked through memory like a plague. John Flint, I
have had the misfortune to know you for twenty
years, and during that time you never have, to my
knowledge, performed a single act worthy of being
remembered. You have a narrow, malicious mind;
you have been tyrannical when you should have
been generous; you have been the devil's emissary
under the cant of religion. You call Jesus master,
but you crucify him daily! There is your photograph,
John Flint!”

“You flatter me,” remarked that personage, sarcastically;
“but go on.”

“It is seldom that a rich man has the truth spoken
to him plainly—the poor man hears it often enough.
Consider yourself favored. You have called me a
knave. I will draw some pictures, and I wish you to
look at them:

“Many years ago, a seafaring man who had just
lost his ship in which his little fortune had been invested,
returned to this city sick at heart, and weak
from a wound which he had received in the wreck.
He had battled many a year against misfortune, and
his utmost exertions had barely found bread for his
children. He owed money to a heartless and exacting
man. He stood before his creditor and said,

`I am beggared, but I will work for you.' The merchant
replied, `Come to my house to-night, and I will
find means by which this debt can be liquidated.'
The sailor expected reproaches and hard words; so
he was surprised at the softness of this speech, and
his heart was full of gratitude.

“That night he sat in the parlor of the merchant,
who plied him with rare wines, until his mind went
from him. Then he made a proposal to the sailor,
who, if he had had his senses, would have felled him
to the floor. The merchant had been appointed
guardian to a motherless babe, which his brother,
dying, begged him to love and educate. His ship on
the sea, and the bales of merchandize in his warehouses,
were not enough to feed his hungry avarice.
He needs must have the little inheritance of the babe.
Well, while he was speaking, making artful pictures
in the eyes of his drugged dupe, the child ran into
the room, and twined her arms around the neck of
him who should have worshiped her. But he coldly
unclasped the little hands and pushed her from him.
John Flint, when that man, on Judgment Day, shall
cringe before the throne of God, the Evil Angel will
trample him down!”

Flint was as white as the marble mantel-piece on
which he leaned. Edward Walters stood a short distance
in front of him; his eyes were fixed, and he
spoke like one who sees what he is describing.

“Then the man—the merchant—wrapped the child
in the sailor's cloak. In a few minutes the sailor
stood in the stormy street, with a frightened little
heart throbbing against his own. The cutting sleet
and snow beat in his face, and the wine made a veil
before his eyes. It was a fearful night. Not a
human form was to be seen; the street lamps were
blown out, and the poor mariner drifted to and fro
like a deserted ship. He had become mad; the
strange events had eaten into his brain. He wrapped
the babe closer in his cloak, and placed her in a door-way,
out of the cold. He wandered from street to
street, then he sank down in the snow. When his
senses came to him he had been in a madhouse—God,
how many years! Was it ten? The June wind broke
through the barred window; it touched his forehead,
and it was like a human hand rousing one from
a dreamless sleep. One evening soon after, he stood
before the merchant, who was sipping his choice
cordials, as you were to-night, Flint, and the sailor
asked for the child. The man replied: `The child is
dead; you left it in the cold, and it died, or you
threw it into the river. I saw a body at the dead-house,
weeks afterward, which looked like the child.
You committed murder; it was your own act. Suppose
you were to be hung for it!' Have I a good
memory, John Flint?”

And the man turned his wild eyes on Mr. Flint,
who gave no other evidence of not being a statue
than a slight tremor of his upper lip.

“What did the madman say to the merchant?
He took the cool, calculating villain by the throat,
and cried, `Write me out, in your round, clerkly
hand, a full avowal of your guilt in this matter,
or I'll strangle you!' The merchant knew he would,
so he wrote this document with trembling fingers,
and he signed it John Flint!”

Then the sailor drew from his pocket an old
stained letter, and held it up to the light. He
looked at it sadly, and then his mind seemed to
wander off through a gloomy mist of memories, for
his eyes grew gentle and dreamy.

He spoke softly, almost tenderly:

“John Flint, you never saw me weep. Look at
me, then. I am thinking of an old country-house
which stood in a cluster of trees near a sea-shore.
It once held everything that was dear to me—my
children. Three years ago I stood with my hand
on the gate, and looked into the little garden. It
had gone to waste; the wind had beaten down the
flower frames; the honeysuckle vines were running
wild, and there was the moss of ten years' growth
on the broken chimney-pots. The rain had washed
the paint off the house, and the windows were
boarded up. There was something in the ruin and

stillness of the place which spoke to me. Twilight
added a gloomy background to the picture.
I broke the rusty fastenings of a side door, and
entered the deserted building. It may have been
fancy, but I saw two forms wandering from room
to room, and through the darkened entries; now
they would pause, as if listening for footsteps, then
they would move on again, sorrowfully, sorrowfully.
In the bedroom over the front door, I saw
the shadow of a little coffin! She used to sleep
there. Where were my children? Where was
trustful old Nanny, that she did not come to me?
The house was full of strange shadows, and I fled
from it. I did not dare go to the village hard by.
There were too many who might have known me.
I sat down in the quiet churchyard where my wife
had slept many a long year. I sat by a little mound
on which a wreath of flowers had been laid—nothing
remained of them but stems and the rotting
string that had bound them. It had a peaceful
look, the grave, and I wished that I had died when
my mound would not have been made longer than
the one at my side. What did the simple head-stone
say? It said: `Little Bell!'—that was all!”

The sailor grasped Flint's arm.

“Only little Bell!—that was all. But it was all
the world to me! What a tale it told! What a

tale of weary waiting, and despair, and death! Did
her little heart wait for me! Did she sicken and
die when I did not come to her? Aye, it said all
this and more. And my boy—was he living? was
he searching for me? No, not searching, for close
by my child's grave, a white stone had these words
carved on it:” and the man repeated them slowly,

SACRED
TO THE MEMORY
OF
OUR FATHER,
LOST AT SEA.

“Not lost at sea,” he said, almost inaudibly,
“but lost! Ah, I could have died in that quiet
place, with the moonlight on me! But I was startled
from my grief by the shouts of some men on the
roadside, and I turned and fled. Have you looked
at the picture, John Flint?”

He spoke so mournfully, that Flint raised his little,
sharp eyes, which all this time had been fixed
on the carpet; but he made no reply.

“I'll have none of your gold, man. I was weak
to want it. Give it to the poor. The shining round
pieces may fall like sunlight into some wretched
home. To me they are like drops of blood!”

And he pushed the gold from him, and went to

the window. He saw the dim eyes of Heaven looking
down through the mist—heard the murmurs of
the city dying away, and the calm of night entered
his soul.

“May you be a better man when we meet again,”
he said, turning to Flint.

“But the letter,” cried Flint, fearfully, “you
won't—”

The sailor's lips curled, and something of his
former severity returned.

“Take off your sanctimonious cravat,” he answered,
“wrap charity around you like a robe, that
you may be pleasing in God's sight. You sent some
gold to convert the Hindoos—the papers said so.
Why, man! there is a Heathen Land at your door-step!
John Flint, good night!”

The merchant stood alone.

The night wind swayed the heavy curtains to
and fro, and half extinguished the brilliant jets of
gas. He threw himself into a chair, and a vision
of the Past rose up before him—the terrible Past.
The ghosts of dead years haunted his brain, and
remorse sat on his heart, boding and mysterious,
like the Raven of the sweet poet—

That night, as we have said, he dreamt of two
blue, innocent eyes, which once looked confidingly
in his—of two infant arms which encircled his neck.
Those eyes haunted him into the realm of sleep,
where myriads of little arms were stretched out to
him, and he turned restlessly on his pillow!