University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

Manæuvring and plain dealing.

—Shakspeare.

The wretched Williams, a slave to sensuality, and involved
in a labyrinth by his own practices, lived in perpetual fear of
losing the reward of his meanness; of being exposed to infamy
by the disclosure of that transaction which had given him the
means of indulgence. He feared to thwart the perverted inclinations,
or the frenzied whims, of his partner. She had
been long convinced that his professions of love had been false,
and that she had cause for jealousy. She knew, however, that
her hold upon him, that grasp which gave her power, was the
secret: and she had cunning enough, even in her moments of
passion or of voluntary madness, to preserve unbroken the
bonds by which she controlled him. She suspended over his
coward head the lash he feared. Often she appeared to triumph
in the power she possessed, and, in part, revealed the
cause.

After the last exhibition at Doctor Cadwallader's, there appeared
but little hope to escape from exposure. Still the man

of art flattered himself that his address, and the doctor's interest,
might suspend, if not ward off, the blow that threatened.
He soon had his suspense removed.

It is not well to repeat epithets, or, in speaking of our hero,
I might say the wretched Spiffard, for he retired from Doctor
Cadwallader's in a plight almost as lamentable, (though from
very dissimilar causes) as the man who proved to be the husband
of his aunt; but we will simply say that Zebediah Spiffard,
on going home, found Emma Portland alone; employed,
as usual, with her book and her needle. His wife and her
mother were still at the theatre. Mrs. Spiffard had, on this
evening, represented the heroine of the “Taming of the
Shrew,” a character in which her tall and noble figure, powerfully
expressive features, flexible, sonorous and overwhelming
organs of speech, and great discrimination in giving the language
of the poet, made her a favourite of the public. Cooper
was equally excellent in Petruchio, and the curtailed play
being performed as an afterpiece, he had made his appearance
at Cadwalladar's before attending to his duties as an actor.

Spiffard left Emma and proceeded to the play-house to
meet the ladies of whom he had become the protector. We
have seen what the feelings of the actor were in respect to accepting
invitations to parties in which ladies participated, and
to which his wife was not asked. It may be imagined that the
actress, such as we have endeavoured to describe Mrs. Spiffard,
would feel as little pleased as her husband at the distinction.
He had talked the matter over with her previous to
going to the doctor's, and she, although by no means objecting
to his determination, had expressed no little bitterness on the
subject generally. In truth she felt mortified and degraded:—
whether she played the shrew better or worse that evening we
do not pretend to say. When Cooper appeared in the green-room,
she asked if he had seen her husband. He answered,
carelessly, “O, yes! he is the fiddle of the company. I hope,
like the man in Joe Miller, he does not hang his fiddle up behind
the street-door when he comes home. He is as gay as a
lark, faisant l'agreable, and quite the ladies' man.”

The call-boy cut off further remark by interrupting the colloquy;
as frequently happens, (and sometimes very apropos)
to green-room conversation.

Spiffard found the ladies ready to depart, and, with his
thoughts still occupied by the events which had shocked and
overpowered him, he placed himself in melancholy silence between

his towering spouse and her lofty mother, the three forming
the figure of an inverted cone.

“You have passed an agreeable evening, I hope?”

“All the great folks of the city were there, I suppose,”
added the mother, before he could reply to his wife's question.
After a moment's silence Mrs. Spiffard added, inquiringly,
“a great many ladies?”

“Yes.”

“All very gay?”

“Yes.”

“Very agreeable and amiable?”

“Yes.”

“Ah,” thought the wife, “the fiddle's hung up before we
reach the street-door.”

The lady had been excited by the plaudits of the theatre.
She had been further excited by what her mother had urged
her to take after the fatigue of the stage; notwithstanding a
promise she had made her husband, who, in kindness, though
with firmness, had remonstrated against the practice. She
knew not the cause of his taciturnity, and remembered the idea
that had been given of his gaiety in the company of others.
The darkness might have veiled the lowering of her heavy
brows, even had Spiffard looked up to them; but the thunder
that broke from the cloud startled him from the gloomy musings
of his afflicted spirit.

And a shower of words on “the insolence of the rich—the
injustice inflicted upon genius—the unhappy fate of actors,
particularly females—” lasted until they had reached their
home; where, in the happiness of innocence, combined with
intelligence, still sat Emma Portland.

The quick perception of Spiffard on the subject nearest his
heart, left him as miserable for the night (perhaps more miserable)
as the man I have termed wretched at the commencement
of this chapter.

The colloquy of Doctor Cadwallader and his wife was not
as pleasant as usual with people so truly high-minded and intellectual.
The subject was not agreeable. It was the untoward
events of the past evening. Williams had been received
by the doctor, who was a Philadelphian, and knew the excellent
quaker relatives of the general, with the warmth of a fellow
townsman. Cadwallader had been employed as the family
physician. He had faithfully forewarned the wife, and undauntedly
remonstrated with the husband. He was no flatterer.

After a serious consultation, (to use a medical phrase) with

his best friend, the doctor waited upon Williams, the day after
the party, and, with very little previous ceremony, addressed
him in the following manner:

“I have come to perform a duty which is extremely disagreeable,
but, as it is a duty, I shall not shrink from it.”

“You have always done your duty.”

“And will now. After the scene of last evening, at my
house, and before so many witnesses, I must be explicit with
you in respect to our future intercourse.”

“What do you mean, my dear friend.”

“Sir, I mean, that after the exhibition made by your bringing
Mrs. Williams to my house, when you knew the impropriety
of so doing, I must come to a clear understanding with
you respecting the future intercourse between my family and
the person in question.”

“My dear sir, you astonish me! You know her unfortunate
nervous temperament—the affection—”

“Sir, I am a physician.”

“Known to be the first in the western world.”

“I have acted as physician to your family, probably called
in because we are both Philadelphians, and, as a physician, I
know the cause—that is, the immediate cause of this deplorable
effect. The more remote is probably only known to
yourself.”

“A delicate constitution—morbid nervous susceptibility—”

“Sir, you seem to forget, that, as your physician, I have
before told you the nature of the disease. I have never flattered
you, and never shall.”

“My dear sir, you know—”

“Sir, sir, I know too much. I have witnessed too much.
I have been forbearing: but I now tell you plainly, that, when
the disease prevails, the patient must be kept at home. The
alienation of mind, inflicted by natural causes, can never be
mistaken. I tell you, sir, that the true, immediate cause, is
known; and a remote cause imagined. For my own part,
sir, I must decline all further intercourse between the two
houses, except such as may be called for in my professional
capacity.”

“Sir, I do not understand—this—”

“You may as well understand, without forcing me to speak
plainer.”

“Such language, sir, calls for explanation.”

“It had better be avoided; but I am ready to give a plain
answer to any question you may propound.”

“My dear doctor, you must not take offence. You are my
friend. My fellow-townsman. I perceive that—that the
meeting with a young gentleman at your house, has made it
necessary that you should be made acquainted with the previous
history of your patient—it is necessary that you should
know circumstances which the meddling world need not be
made acquainted with.”

“I beg that no secret may be confided to me, sir.”

“You are my friend. You have always been sincere, and
I value sincerity as the first of virtues. I hope you will listen
to me.” And the accomplished courtier related such parts of
his wife's early history, as he thought necessary to account for
the scene connected with Spiffard, as far as he himself knew or
could understand his behaviour.

Doctor Cadwallader entered into some further explanations
in respect to the causes which were suspected or imagined,
for the general's extraordinary conduct. He dwelt at some
length upon the tendency of mystery to create suspicion. But as
we know that the reader is sufficiently acquainted, by this time,
with the Williams's, we shall not repeat more of the conversation.
The general winced—but bowed, and praised his friend's
candour. The doctor concluded by saying, “My advice is
that, not only of a physician, but of a friend—a friend to my
fellow-creatures. There is a point to which the world may be
led blindfold. Men are not averse to being hoodwinked; but
if they do open their oyes, they are very apt to believe their
testimony. Good morning, sir.”

Thus ended the interview between the general and his townsman,
the doctor; who, having made his bow, was attended to
the door with congees and smiles, mingled with sighs and a general
humility of demeanor suited to the occasion. Left to himself,
Williams burst forth into passionate exclamations and
bitter curses. The pent-up tempest had free vent; and he
traversed his splendid apartment with such furious looks and
gestures as might be attributed to a disappointed demon.

He bethought himself of the necessity for seeing his wife's
nephew. The necessity for gaining his good will, and securing
his silence. This operated like oil upon the surface of the
agitated waters. He became outwardly calm. The storm of
passion appeared to subside; and again arranging his features,
and even his thoughts, the accomplished courtier and despicable
hypocrite sought at the box-office of the theatre a direction
to the comedian, and presented himself at the door of Mrs.
Epsom.

The ripened age, commanding person, and courteous manners
of the soi-disant general, insured him a reception anywhere.
The only servant of the house introduced him to the
room in which our hero sat in meditating mood.

“I speak to Mr. Spiffard?” said Williams, bowing with an
air and look something between the friendly greeting of an old
acquaintance who wishes to renew intimacy, and the condescending,
patronizing, gracious, encouraging, and affable expression
of a superior to a favoured inferior.

The words, the bow, and the condescending smiles, were
only answered by a formal and repulsive inclination of the comedian's
body.

The general had a practised face, carefully educated, as we
have seen, to mask the movements of his mind; and although
he felt the repulse, he did not show the shock his pride had
received, or evince his surprise at the return to his courtesy
from an actor—“and such an ugly little fellow too.”

He proceeded. “I was prevented, last evening, by one circumstance
or another—”

The words “last evening” called up the scene (which had
been from the time recurring to Spiffard's imagination) in the
most vivid freshness. It was present to him. His colourless
cheeks became blue; his long chin dropped; and his pale lips
quivered. For a moment the upper teeth were visible, owing
to the convulsive motion of the muscles of the mouth; but by
an effort he closed his thin lips, and held them firmly compressed
while the general continued.

“I was prevented asking an introduction to you, but I determined
to seek you immediately, and assure you, that your aunt
and myself will both be extremely happy to see you at our
house.” Zebediah bowed coldly, and there was an awkward
pause. At length he said—

“I suppose, sir, that you expect me to thank you for your
invitation?”

Even the general's educated visage could not stand this. It
became a blank. It denoted a chaotic state within, that is anything
but comfortable. The water-drinker proceeded.

“Until I know more of you and of Mrs. Williams—for
Williams I understand is your name—until I learn something
more, and something different from what I gathered last evening,
I beg leave to decline your invitation, or more intimate
acquaintance.”

The general's face almost forgot its lessons. Even practice
had not made perfect. It was suffused with red, far beyond

the medium colour of tranquil beauty; but its master remembered
that there was a point to be gained in a game of
some moment; and he composed it to an air of surprise before
he said “Very extraordinary!”

“Is it extraordinary that a man of common prudence or
common sense, should decline the acquaintance of a person,
whom he has only seen in a light by which he appeared to great
disadvantage—to say the least? Or is it extraordinary that I
should shrink from contact with one, although the sister of my
mother—one, who, from some cause, which probably you can
explain, was considered by her father dead, although living?—
one, whose name was prohibited the lips of her pure sister?—
one, who, though not physically lost to life, was dead and outcast
from the heart and hearth of her father?”

Williams, glorious actor as he was, could act no longer.
Spiffard had not asked him to be seated. He leaned on the
back of a chair; and as the young man's face flushed with indignation,
and his eyes flashed the meaning his words expressed,
the self-condemned deceiver became pale, cast his troubled
glances on the floor, and sunk into the chair he had caught at
for support.

Spiffard stood firmly before him—dignified by the consciousness
of sincerity and rectitude. Williams at length said, “I
perceive, sir, that you know—,” and he paused.

“Sir,” said Spiffard, “you will pardon me, perhaps, if I
quote a line from a play on so serious an occasion, but `I
have been used all my life to speak,' if not to hear, `the plain
and simple truth,' and I will not deviate from it now. I have
been at the house of my grandfather—the father of your wife.
I was for days together a guest and a child in the family, after
your wife had become an alien to it.”

Williams started. He recovered himself, and stood up—
not erect—but he stood up. Your habitual man of courtesy,
or your sycophant, never stands perfectly erect.

“You would not wish to injure—to destroy—your unfortunate
aunt? Already broken down by disease, which is cruelly
misrepresented! After what she has suffered, to be banished
from the society in which she now moves, would murder her!
You are not called upon to mention the—the cause of her
leaving the house of her father. You will not?”

“I will make no promise, sir, but will act to the best of my
judgment, as circumstances may appear to require. I will not
wantonly or unnecessarily injure you or your wife by speaking
of you. My relationship to her is unknown.”

Here the habitual inclination to prefer falsehood to truth,
prompted Williams to assent, and leave Spiffard in ignorance
of his having divulged so much of the secret history; but he
thought of the danger of leaving him in ignorance, and concluded
that it would be best to mention that fact.

“Unfortunately, perhaps, my love of candour and open dealing
has caused me to communicate the circumstance of your
relationship to Mrs. Williams, in explanation of the words your
aunt made use of in public, occasioned by the surprise at hearing
your name.”

“Then, sir, I can promise nothing.”

There was a long and very awkward pause. Both parties
continued standing. Spiffard stiff and strait, as is very much
the case with men of his scanted height—an uprightness for
which there is an anatomical cause, separate and independent
of any moral impulse. He looked up in the face of the general,
whose eyes were cast down as if examining the texture of
the common coarse carpeting on which he stood. At length
Williams broke the silence.

“You will, however, Mr. Spiffard, not mention—”

And he paused, as if at a loss for words to address a being
so dissimilar to any he had been accustomed to—a being of
whose nature he had not a distinct notion—a man of truth.
Spiffard replied to the broken sentence.

“I will not start the subject; I will even avoid it, or anything
that might lead to it; but if directly questioned by any
one to whom I think an answer is due, my answer shall be—
truth.”

Another pause; and the discomfited general moved towards
the door. The unbending, and, in this case, inhospitable comedian,
followed him in silence.

When in the street, and before covering his head, although
the cold wind—no flatterer—waved and ruffled his silken
locks discourteously, the retreating tactician once more bowed
and said—

“We shall be happy to see you at our house.”

No answer was returned, and the door was shut, almost before
the back of the bower was turned.

Neither the man of truth nor the man of deceit were the
happier for this interview. The latter felt that the foundation
on which he relied for his standing in the American world,
was sliding from under him; and the depth to which he was to
sink, was not defined. He saw the net-work he had woven

and patched for years, whenever a hole happened to be made
in it, now dissolving like a thing of mist, or the delusive banquet
raised, to cheat the eyes of his dupe, by a necromancer.
The light was pouring in, and he shrank from it appalled. He
had not altogether lost confidence in his long tried powers; but
no redeeming scheme presented itself. He would willingly have
cursed the insolent actor, but, like Balaam, he was constrained
to bless—for involuntary praise is blessing. “This fellow is
too honest to be tampered with.” After his interview with
Cadwallader, equally a man of truth and honour, he had burst
forth in exclamations and curses. He had reviled his country,
her institutions, and her society. But as he walked from the
player's modest dwelling, he experienced something of the
calmness of despair. He strove to rally his thoughts, and to
send them on service to the dark depths of his sink-like soul,
to seek auxiliaries in the narrow precincts and obscure corners,
where cunning always dwells. As he passed slowly on toward
his proud dwelling, his outward man had reassumed its wonted
appearance; he went on bowing and smiling in courteous recognition
of every genteel acquaintance he met, until he reached
his house—home he had none.

Spiffard had of late been in a constant state of excitement.
It had been wrought to a most painful height by the events of
the last evening. His tendency to monomania was daily increasing.
He did not accuse himself of acting wrong in his interview
with Williams; but his nature was of the kindliest sort,
and he felt a pang in consequence of having treated a fellow-creature
harshly.

He turned from the street door, which he had with good will
interposed between the general and himself. He regretted that
he had pushed it so violently. He strode through the short
and narrow entry to the room he had just left, which was still
vacant, the females of the family avoiding it, as they had heard
from the maid-servant that a strange gentleman was below.
He put to the door softly, and approached the fire. He saw
in the red hot coals the faces of Williams and his wife, and
that of his own mother. He looked up, and ejaculated “God
forgive me! poor creatures!” Who he meant by the last two
words may be doubtful. He wiped the tears from his cheeks
before he sought the company of his wife. He felt the necessity
of hiding his emotion, and of evading any questions respecting
his visiter. “Should he tell her that there were circumstances
of moment to him which he could not confide?”

If such a necessity existed, it was a sad and ruinous necessity.
“Should he preserve silence altogether?” He knew that
every man should look for advice and support in difficulty, and
for increase of joy by sharing it, both from his life's partner;
still he had doubts; late circumstances bewildered him. He
decided wrongly.