University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

The town-clock was on the last stroke of
twelve, the solitary candle measured but two
inches from its socket, and, as the summer
wind rushed through the half-closed shutters,
the melted tallow dripped slowly into the
brightly-burnished brazen candlestick. The
flickering light fell upon grim battalions of
figures marshalled on the long, blue-lined
pages of a ledger, and flashed fitfully on the
face of the accountant, as he bent over his
work. In these latter days of physical degeneration,
such athletic frames as his are rarely
seen among the youth of our land. Sixteen
years growth had given him unusual height
and remarkable breadth of chest, and it was
difficult to realize that the stature of manhood
had been attained by a mere boy in years. A
gray suit (evidently home-made), of rather
coarse texture, bespoke poverty; and, owing
to the oppressive heat of the atmosphere, the
coat was thrown partially off. He wore no
vest, and the loosely-tied black ribbon suffered
the snowy white collar to fall away
from the throat and expose its well-turned
outline. The head was large, but faultlessly
proportioned, and the thick black hair, cut
short and clinging to the temples, added to its
massiveness. The lofty forehead, white and
smooth, the somewhat heavy brows matching
the hue of the hair, the straight, finely-formed
nose with its delicate but clearly-defined nostril,
and full, firm lips unshaded by mustache,
combined to render the face one of uncommon
beauty. Yet, as he sat absorbed by his figures,
there was nothing prepossessing or winning
in his appearance, for though you could
not carp at the moulding of his features, you
involuntarily shrank from the prematurely
grave, nay, austere expression which seemed
habitual to them. He looked just what he
was, youthful in months and years, but old in
trials, sorrows, and labors, and to one who
analyzed his countenance, the conviction was
inevitable that his will was gigantic, his ambition
unbounded, his intellect wonderfully
acute and powerful. It is always sad to remark
in young faces the absence of that
beaming enthusiasm which only a joyous
heart imparts, and though in this instance
there was nothing dark or sinister, you could
not fail to be awed by the cold, dauntless res
olution which said so plainly: “I struggle,
and shall conquer. I shall mount, though the
world defy me.” Although he had labored
since dawn, there was no drooping of the
muscular frame, no symptom of fatigue, save
in the absolute colorlessness of his face. Firm
as some brazen monument on its pedestal, he
sat and worked on, one hand wielding the
pen, the other holding down the leaves which
fluttered, now and then, as the breeze passed
over them.

“Russell, do you know it is midnight?”

He frowned, and answered without looking
up.

“Yes.”

“How much longer will you sit up?”

“Till I finish my work.”

The speaker stood on the threshold, leaning
against the door-facing, and, after waiting a
few moments, softly crossed the room and put
her hand on the back of his chair. She was
two years his junior, and though evidently
the victim of recent and severe illness, even
in her feebleness she was singularly like him.
Her presence seemed to annoy him, for he
turned round, and said hastily: “Electra, go
to bed. I told you good-night three hours
ago.”

She stood still, but silent.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

He wrote on for some ten minutes longer,
then closed the ledger and put it aside. The
candle had burned low; he took a fresh one
from the drawer of the table, and, after lighting
it, drew a Latin dictionary near to him,
opened a worn copy of Horace, and began to
study. Quiet as his own shadow stood the
fragile girl behind his chair, but as she watched
him a heavy sigh escaped her. Once more
he looked up, with a finger still in the dictionary,
and asked impatiently:

“Why on earth don't you go to sleep?”

“I can't sleep; I have tried my best.”

“Are you sick again, my poor little cousin?”

He stretched out his arm, and drew her close
to him.

“No; but I know you are up, hard at work,
and it keeps me awake. If you would only
let me help you.”

“But you can't help me; I have told you
so time and again. You only interrupt and
hinder me.”

She colored, and bit her lip; then answered
sorrowfully:

“If I thought I should be weak and sickly
all my life, I would rather die at once, and
burden you and auntie no longer.”

“Electra, who told you that you burdened
me?”

“Oh, Russell! don't I know how hard you
have to work; and how difficult it is for you
to get even bread and clothes. Don't I see
how auntie labors day after day, and month
after month? You are good and kind, but
does that prevent my feeling the truth, that
you are working for me too? If I could only
help you in some way.” She knelt down by
his chair and leaned her head on his knee,
holding his hands between both hers.

“Electra, you do help me; all day long
when I am at the store your face haunts me,
strengthens me; I feel that I am striving to
give you comforts, and when at night you
meet me at the gate, I am repaid for all I
have done. You must put this idea out of
your head, little one; it is altogether a mistake.
Do you hear what I say? Get up, and go to
sleep like a good child, or you will have another
wretched headache to-morrow, and can't
bring me my lunch.”

He lifted her from the floor, and kissed her
hastily. She raised her arms as if to wind
them about his neck, but his grave face gave
her no encouragement, and turning away she
retired to her room, with hot tears rolling over
her cheeks. Russell had scarcely read half a
dozen lines after his cousin's departure when
a soft hand swept back the locks of hair on
his forehead, and wiped away the heavy drops
that moistened them.

“My son, you promised me you would not
sit up late to-night.”

“Well, mother, I have almost finished. Remember
the nights are very short now, and
twelve o'clock comes early.”

“The better reason that you should not be
up so late. My son, I am afraid you will ruin
your health by this unremitting application.”

“Why—look at me. I am as strong as an
athlete of old.” He shook his limbs and smiled,
proud of his great physical strength.

“True, Russell, but, robust as you are, you
can not stand such toil without detriment. Put
up your books.”

“Not yet; I have more laid out, and you
know I invariably finish all I set apart to do.
But, mother, your hand is hot; you are not
well.” He raised the thin hand, and pressed
it to his lips.

“A mere headache, nothing more. Mr.
Clark was here to-day; he is very impatient
about the rent; I told him we were doing all
we could, and thought that by September we
should be able to pay the whole. He spoke
of going to see you, which I urged him not
to do, as you were exerting yourself to the
utmost.” She scanned his face while she spoke,
and noted the compression of his mouth. He
knew she watched him, and answered with a
forced smile: “Yes, he came to the store this
morning. I told him we had been very unfortunate
this year in losing our only servant;
and that sickness had forced us to incur more
expense than usual. However, I drew fifty
dollars, and paid him all I could. True, I
anticipated my dues, but Mr. Watson gave me
permission. So for the present you need not
worry about rent.”

“What is the amount of that grocery bill
you would not let me see last week?”

“My dear mother, do not trouble yourself
with these little matters; the grocery bill will
very soon be paid. I have arranged with Mr.
Hill to keep his books at night, and therefore
you may be easy. Trust all to me, mother;
only take care of your dear self, and I ask no
more.”

“Oh, Russell! my son, my son!”

She had drawn a chair near him, and now
laid her head on his shoulder, while tears
dropped on his hand. He had not seen her
so unnerved for years, and as he looked down
on her grief-stained, yet resigned face, his
countenance underwent a marvellous change;
and, folding his arms about her, he kissed her
pale, thin cheek repeatedly.

“Mother, it is not like you to repine in this
way; you who have suffered and endured so
much must not despond, when, after a long,
starless night the day begins to dawn.”

“I fear `it dawns in clouds, and heralds only
storms.' For myself I care not, but for you,
Russell—my pride, my only hope, my brave
boy! it is for you that I suffer. I have been
thinking to-night that this is a doomed place
for you, and that if we could only save money
enough to go to California, you might take
the position you merit: for there none would
know of the blight which fell upon you; none
could look on your brow and dream it seemed
sullied. Here you have such bitter prejudice
to combat; such gross injustice heaped upon
you.”

He lifted his mother's head from his bosom
and rose, with a haughty, defiant smile on his
lip.

“Not so; I will stay here, and live down
their hate. Mark me, mother, I will live it
down, so surely as I am Russell Aubrey, the
despised son of a — Let them taunt and
sneer! let them rake up the smouldering ashes
of the miserable past, to fling in my face and
blind me; let them, and welcome! I will gather
up these same ashes, dry and bitter, and hide
them with sacred zeal in a golden urn; and I
will wreathe it with chaplets that never die.
Aye! the Phœnix lies now in dust, but one
day the name of Aubrey will rise in more
than pristine glory; and mine be the hand to
resurrect its ancient splendor. `Mens cujusque
is est quisque!' Menzikoff, who ruled the
councils of the Kremlin in its palmiest days,

once sold pies for a living in the streets of
Moscow. `Mens cujusque is est quisque!' I
will owe no man thanks; none shall point to
me and say, `He was drowning in the black,
seething gulf of social prejudice, and I held
out a finger, and clinging to it he lived.' Not
so! dollar for dollar, service for service, I will
pay as I rise. I scorn to ask favors, I am glad
none are tendered me. I have a grim satisfaction
in knowing that I owe no human being
a kindness, save you, my precious mother.
Go to California! not I! not I. In this state
will I work and conquer; here, right here, I
will plant my feet upon the necks of those
that now strive to grind me to the dust. I
swore it over my father's coffin! I tell you,
mother, I will trample out the stigma, for,
thank God! `there is no free-trade measure
which will ever lower the price of brains.'”

“Hush, Russell, you must subdue your fierce
temper; you must! you must! remember it was
this ungovernable rage which brought disgrace
upon your young, innocent head. Oh! it
grieves me, my son, to see how bitter you
have grown; it wrings my heart to hear you
challenge fate, as you so often do. Once you
were gentle and forgiving; now scorn and defiance
rule you.”

“I am not fierce, I am not in a rage. Lay
your hand on my temples—here on my wrist;
count the pulse, slow and steady, mother, as
your own. I am not vindictive; am no Indian
to bear about a secret revenge, ready to consummate
it at the first propitious moment. If
I should meet the judge and jury who doomed
my father to the gallows, I think I would serve
them if they needed aid. But I am proud; I
inherited my nature; I writhe, yes, mother,
writhe under the treatment I constantly receive.
I defy fate? Well, suppose I do: she
has done her worst. I have no quarrel with
her for the past; but I will conquer her in the
future. I am not bitter; would I not give my
life for you? Are you not dearer to me than
my own soul? Take back your words, they
hurt me; don't tell me that I grieve you,
mother.”

His voice faltered an instant, and he put
his arms tenderly round the drooping form.

“We have troubles enough, my son, without
dwelling upon what is past and irremediable.
So long as you seem cheerful, I am
content. I know that God will not lay more
on me than I can bear; `as my day, so shall
my strength be.' Thy will be done, oh! my
God.”

There was a brief pause, and Russell Aubrey
passed his hand over his eyes and dashed off
a tear. His mother watched him, and said,
cautiously:

“Have you noticed that my eyes are rapidly
growing worse?”

“Yes, mother, I have been anxious for some
weeks.”

“You knew it all, then?”

“Yes, mother.”

“I shall not murmur; I have become resigned
at last; though for many weeks I have
wrestled for strength, for patience. It was so
exceedingly bitter to know that the time drew
near when I should see you no more; to feel
that I should stretch out my hands to you, and
lean on you, and yet look no longer on the
dear face of my child, my boy, my all. But
my prayers were heard; the sting has passed
away, and I am resigned. I am glad we have
spoken of it; now my mind is calmer, and I
can sleep. Good-night, my son.”

She pressed the customary good-night kiss
on his lips, and left him. He closed the dictionary,
leaned his elbow on the table, and
rested his head on his hand. His piercing
black eyes were fixed gloomily on the floor,
and now and then his broad chest heaved as
dark and painful thoughts crowded up.

Mrs. Aubrey was the only daughter of
wealthy and ambitious parents, who refused
to sanction her marriage with the object of
her choice; and threatened to disinherit her
if she persisted in her obstinate course. Mr.
Aubrey was poor, but honest, highly cultivated,
and, in every sense of that much-abused
word, a gentleman. His poverty was not to
be forgiven, however, and when the daughter
left her father's roof, and wedded the man
whom her parents detested, the die was cast;
she was banished for ever from a home of
affluence, and found that she had indeed forfeited
her fortune. For this she was prepared,
and bore it bravely; but ere long severer
trials came upon her. Unfortunately, her
husband's temper was fierce and ungovernable;
and pecuniary embarrassments rarely
have the effect of sweetening such. He removed
to an inland town, and embarked in
mercantile pursuits; but misfortune followed
him, and reverses came thick and fast. One
miserable day when from early morning everything
had gone wrong, an importunate creditor,
of wealth and great influence in the
community, chafed at Mr. Aubrey's tardiness
in repaying some trifling sum, proceeded to
taunt and insult him most unwisely. Stung
to madness, the wretched man resented the
insults; a struggle ensued, and at its close Mr.
Aubrey stood over the corpse of the creditor.
There was no mode of escape, and the arm of
the law consigned him to prison. During the
tedious weeks that elapsed before the trial
devoted wife strove to cheer and encourage
him by every effort which one human
can make for another. Russell
eleven years of age, and, boy
realized most fully the horrors of
situation. The days of the trial
but he had surrendered himself
Rage, had taken the life of
what could legal skill
produced great and
the murdered man had

ular, and the sympathies of the citizens were
enlisted in behalf of his family. Although
clearly a case of manslaughter only, the violent
prejudice of the community and the exertions
of influential friends so biassed the
jury that, to the astonishment of the counsel
on both sides, the cry of “blood for blood”
went out from that crowded court-room, and in
defiance of precedent, Mr. Aubrey was unjustly
sentenced to be hung. When the verdict
was known, Russell placed his insensible
mother on a couch from which it seemed probable
she would never rise. But there is an
astonishing amount of endurance in even a
feeble woman's frame, and after a time she
went about her house once more, doing her
duty to her child and learning to “suffer and
grow strong.” Fate had ordained, however,
that Russell's father should not die upon the
gallows; and soon after the verdict was pronounced,
when all Mrs. Aubrey's efforts to
procure a pardon had proved unavailing, the
proud and desperate man, in the solitude of his
cell, with no eye but Jehovah's to witness the
awful deed, the consummation of his woes,
took his own life — with the aid of a lancet
launched his guilty soul into eternity. On
the floor of the cell was found a blurred sheet,
sprinkled with blood, directed to his wife, bidding
her farewell, and committing her and
her boy to the care of an outraged and insulted
God. Such was the legacy of shame which
Russell inherited; was it any marvel that at
sixteen that boy had lived ages of sorrow?
Mrs. Aubrey found her husband's financial
affairs so involved that she relinquished the
hope of retaining the little she possessed, and
retired to a small cottage on the outskirts of
the town, where she endeavored to support
herself and the two dependent on her by taking
in sewing. Electra Grey was the orphan
child of Mr. Aubrey's only sister, who dying in
poverty bequeathed the infant to her brother.
He had loved her as well as his own Russell;
and his wife, who cradled her in her arms and
taught her to walk by clinging to her finger,
would almost as soon have parted with her
son as the little Electra. For five years the
widow had toiled by midnight lamps to feed
these two; now oppressed nature rebelled, the
long over-taxed eyes refused to perform their
office; filmy cataracts stole over them, veiling
their sadness and their unshed tears — blindness
was creeping on. At his father's death,
Russell was forced to quit school, and with
some difficulty he succeeded in obtaining a
situation in a large dry-goods store, where his
were onerous in the extreme, and his
mere pittance. To domineer over
adverse fortune places under their
control means uncommon among ignorant
and men, whose industry has
acquired independence, and though Russell's
employer, Mr. Watson shrank from commit
a gross prided himself on his
scrupulous honesty, still his narrow mind and
penurious habits strangled every generous impulse,
and, without being absolutely cruel or
unprincipled, he contrived to gall the boy's
proud spirit and render his position one of
almost purgatorial severity. The machinery
of human will is occult and complicated; very
few rigidly analyze their actions and discern
the motives that impel them, and if any one
had told Jacob Watson that envy was the
secret spring which prompted his unfriendly
course toward his young clerk he would probably
have indignantly denied the accusation.
The blessing of an education had been withheld
from him; he grew up illiterate and devoid
of refinement; fortune favored him, he
amassed wealth, and determined that his children
should enjoy every advantage which
money could command. His eldest son was
just Russell's age, had been sent to various
schools from his infancy, was indolent, self-indulgent,
and thoroughly dissipated. Having
been a second time expelled from school for
most disgraceful misdemeanors, he lounged
away his time about the store or passed it still
more disreputably with reckless companions.

The daily contrast presented by Cecil and
Russell irritated the father, and hence his
settled dislike of the latter. The faithful discharge
of duty on the part of the clerk
afforded no plausible occasion for invective;
he felt that he was narrowly watched, and
resolved to give no ground for fault-finding;
yet during the long summer days, when the
intense heat prevented customers from thronging
the store, and there was nothing to be
done, when Russell, knowing that the books
were written up and the counters free from
goods, took his Latin grammar and improved
every leisure half-hour, he was not ignorant
of the fact that an angry scowl darkened his
employer's visage, and understood why he
was constantly interrupted to perform most
unnecessary labors. But in the same proportion
that obstacles thickened his energy and
resolution doubled; and herein one human
soul differs from another in strength of will,
which furnishes powers of endurance. What
the day denied him he reclaimed from night,
and succeeded in acquiring a tolerable knowledge
of Greek, besides reading several Latin
books. Finding that his small salary was
inadequate, now that his mother's failing sight
prevented her from accomplishing the usual
amount of sewing, he solicited and obtained
permission to keep an additional set of books
for the grocer who furnished his family with
provisions, though by this arrangement few
hours remained for necessary sleep. The
protracted illness and death of an aged and
faithful servant, together with Electra's tedious
sickness, bringing the extra expense of
medical aid, had prevented the prompt payment
of rent due for the three-roomed cottage,
and Russell was compelled to ask for a

portion of his salary in advance. His mother
little dreamed of the struggle which took
place in his heart ere he could force himself
to make the request, and he carefully concealed
from her the fact that at the moment
of receiving the money he laid in Mr. Watson's
hand by way of pawn the only article of
any value which he possessed, the watch his
father had always worn, and which the coroner
took from the vest-pocket of the dead, dabbled
with blood. The gold chain had been sold
long before, and the son wore it attached to a
simple black ribbon. His employer received
the watch, locked it in the iron safe, and
Russell fastened a small weight to the ribbon,
and kept it around his neck that his mother
might not suspect the truth. It chanced that
Cecil stood near at the time; he saw the
watch deposited in the safe, whistled a tune,
fingered his own gold repeater, and walked
away. Such was Russell Aubrey's history;
such his situation at the beginning of his
seventeenth year. Have I a reader whose
fond father lavishes on him princely advantages,
whose shelves are filled with valuable,
but unread volumes, whose pockets are supplied
with more than necessary money, and
who yet saunters through the precious season
of youth failing utterly to appreciate his privileges?
Let him look into that little room
where Russell sits, pale, wearied, but unbending,
pondering his dark future, planning to
protect his mother from want, and racking his
brain for some feasible method of procuring
such books as he absolutely needs; books
which his eager, hungry eyes linger on as he
passes the book-store every morning going to
his work. Oh, young reader! if such I have,
look at him struggling with adversity as a
strong swimmer with the murderous waves
that lash him, and, contrasting your own fortunate
position, shake off the inertia that
clings to you tenaciously as Sinbad's burden,
and go to work earnestly and bravely, thanking
God for the aids he has given you.