University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

The stranger with whom Frank Carroll had contracted
so intimate an acquaintance was known to
his hostess, and to Frank, and with them only did
he appear to have any communication, by the name
of Flavel. Frank was satisfied with finding that he was
always glad to see him, interested in his little wants,
attentive to his prattle, and reluctant to part with
him; and his Dutch hostess being regularly paid
the pittance of his board, felt no farther curiosity in
his conduct or history.

This remarkable exemption of Dame Quackenboss
from one of the ruling passions of her sex, was
more strikingly illustrated towards another lodger,
who had, for ten successive years, rented her miserable
garret. All she knew of this man was, that
his name was Smith, that he was employed in copying
papers for lawyers, that he thus earned his subsistence,
that he practised the most rigid economy (as
she suspected) and accumulated money. Economy
was a cardinal virtue in the eye of Mistress Quackenboss—
the virtue, par excellence, and she reverenced
Smith as its personification. Every one has a beau-ideal,
and Smith was hers. To him alone was she
ever known to defer her own convenience. He was
allowed, whenever he wished it, a quiet place in her
chimney-corner, where he was wont to warm his

benumbed fingers and toes, while he heated on her
coals the contents of a tin cup, that served him for
tea-kettle, shaving-cup, gruel-pot, and in short was
his only culinary utensil.

The indulgence of a fire in his own apartment
was limited to those periods of intense cold when it
was essential to the preservation of life, and then it
was supported by the faggots and coal-cinders,
which in the evening he picked up in the streets.
His apparel was in accordance with this severe frugality.
For ten years he had worn the same coat,
hat, neckcloth, and waistcoat, and he still preserved
their whole and decent appearance, from his “prudent
way,” as his landlady called it, of dispensing with their
use altogether when he was in-doors, and substituting
in their stead, in summer, a cotton, and in winter, a
well patched red baize-gown. Our inventory of his
wardrobe extends no farther. He did his own washing
within the walls of his little attic, and they told
no tales. That they could have betrayed secrets
was evident from the extreme caution with which he
always locked the door of his apartment, whether he
was in or out of it. This was the occasion of a
semi-annual altercation with his landlady, who very
reluctantly conceded to him his right to an exemption
from her house-cleaning. With this exception,
he was the subject of her unvarying respect and commendation.
“A saving and a thrifty body was
John Smit,” she was wont to say; “and if there
were more like him in our city we should not have
to pay for an alms-house and a bridewell, beside
having the Dominies preaching the money out of
our pockets for an Orphan-Asylum.”

She magnified his virtue by contrasting him with
Mr. Flavel. “No wonder,” she said, “that he
had come to the fag-end of his money. Every day
he left sugar enough in his cup, and victuals on his
plate to serve John Smit a week. And such loads
of clothes as he put out to wash—a clean holland
shirt every day—it was enough to make a body's
heart ache! and clean linen on his bed twice a week.
True, he paid for it—but she could not abide the
waste, how long would his money last at that rate?”
Thus she passed in review the common habits of a
gentleman, in which Mr. Flavel indulged, though
in the main he seemed to observe a strict frugality.
She usually concluded her criticisms with a bitter
vituperation of Mr. Flavel's and Frank's friendship.
“What business had he to bring that rampaging
boy there, slamming the door, and tracking the
entry; in all the ten years John Smit had lived in
the house, he had never had one track after him.”
She kept up a sort of thinking aloud, an incessant
muttering like the low growl of a mastiff in his
dreams, and this last remark was repeated for the
bundreth time, as she passed by Mr. Flavel's door
on her way to Smith's room, and with a harsher emphasis
than usual, from her seeing some dark traces
of poor Frank's footsteps, and hearing his voice in
a merry key in Mr. Flavel's apartment.

Smith had appeared to be declining in health for
some months—for several weeks he had rarely left
the house, and for the last week Dame Quackenboss
had not once seen him. She remembered the
last time he came to her kitchen was late in the
evening—that he was then trembling excessively,—

obliged to sit down for some minutes, and that when
she had lighted his lamp for him, he supplicated her,
in the quivering voice of a sick or frightened child,
to carry it for him as far as his chamber door. She
had imputed his agitation to physical exhaustion,
and all unused as she was to such manifestations
of pity, she had, on the following morning,
deposited some soup and herb tea at his door, with
the proper intimations of her charity. Smith's
emotion was, in truth, owing to a cause known
only to himself, and far different from that naturally
assigned by Mrs. Quackenboss.

He had come in that night as usual with his little
bundle of sticks and shavings, and was groping his
way up stairs with his cat-like inaudible tread, when
Mr. Flavel with a lighted lamp in his hand, wrapped
in his white dressing-gown, and looking more
ghastly than usual, passed from his room across the
entry to the parlor, and after remaining there for a
moment, returned, without perceiving Smith, who remained
riveted to the spot where Mr. Flavel had
first struck his sight. To Smith's excited imagination,
he appeared a spirit from the dead, and a
spirit invested with a form and features of all human
shapes, to him the most terrible.

From that night he had never left his room, and
his landlady deemed it prudent to defer no longer
investigating his condition, lest it should be betrayed
in the mode Hamlet suggested for the discovery
of Polonius. She found his door, as she
expected, locked. She knocked and called—there
was no answer. She screamed, but in vain; not
the faintest sound, or sign of life, was returned;

and concluding the poor man was dead, and with
the usual vulgar fear of encountering the spectacle
of death alone, she hastily descended the stairs, and
communicating her apprehensions to Mr. Flavel,
she begged he would stand by, while she forced
open the door. He attended her, followed by
Frank. The weak fastenings gave way at once to
her forcible pressure, and they all entered the apartment
so long and so sedulously concealed. Smith
was living, but insensible, and apparently in a deep
lethargy. Nothing could be more miserable and
squalid than the room, its furniture, and tenant.
He lay on a cot-bed, tucked so close under the inclining
ceiling, that he seemed hardly to have
breathing space. There was no linen on his bed,
and his coverings were made of shreds and patches,
which he had himself sewn together. A little pinetable,
with an ink-stand carefully corked, crossed
by two pens worn to the stump, and as carefully
wiped, stood by his bed-side. A broken basin,
mug, tea-cup, and plate, bought at a china-shop for
a few pennies—a single chair, the bottom of which
he had curiously repaired with list, and a small
box-stove, comprised his furniture. His threadbare
garments were hanging around the room. A
six-penny loaf, half-eaten and mouldy, a dried herring,
and a few grains of rice rolled in a paper,
and tied, lay on the table.

Quiescent as the landlady's curiosity had hitherto
been, it was now called into action by what usually
proves a sedative—the means of present gratification.
After a glance at the sick man, she made a
rapid survey of the room, and holding up both

hands, exclaimed, “John Smit's a fool! and that's
what I did not take him for—lock his door indeed!
he might as well bolt and bar a drum-head—a pretty
spot of work, truly, to have to wrench off a good
lock to break our way into this tomb, where there's
nothing after all but his old carcass!—Ah! what's
this?” A new object struck her eye, and stooping
down she attempted to draw from beneath the bed
an iron box; she could not move it; her predilection
was confirmed; her long cherished faith in
Smith's worldly wisdom re-established, and looking
up with an indescribable expression of satisfaction
and triumph, and laughing outright, for the first
time for many a year, she exclaimed, “Johny a'n't
a fool but!”

Her look appealed to Mr. Flavel. He did not
notice it. Frank enforced it by taking hold of his
arm, and saying, “See, see, Mr. Flavel!” But
Mr. Flavel saw but one object. His eyes were
riveted to Smith. For a moment he gazed intently,
and then uttered his thoughts unconsciously
and in a half suffocated tone—“Good God!—It
cannot be—and yet how like! He removed
the black and matted lock from Smith's forehead.
It was wrinkled and furrowed. “Seven and twenty
years might do this—No, no, it is impossible.”—
He turned away and covered his eyes, and then
again turned towards the dying man, and exclaimed
vehemently, “It is—it is—it must be he!” and
putting his lips down to the dull ear, he shrieked in
a voice of agony. “Savil! Savil!” The poor
wretch made a convulsive struggle, half opened his
eyes, and looked mistily on Mr. Flavel. A slight

shudder passed over his frame, and he sunk again
into his deathlike sleep.

The landlady now interposed, and rudely seizing
Mr. Flavel's arm, “Clear out!” she said, “what
right have you to be tormenting him?” Mr. Flavel
shook her from him, and again bending over Smith,
he murmured, “No, no, it cannot be—I was wild
to hope it—and if it were—oh God!” He turned
away abruptly, and said hastily, “Come, Frank—
come down stairs with me. Frank followed him,
and when he was again in his own room, he took
the boy in his arms, and wept aloud. Frank gazed
at him in silence. To a child there is something
unnatural and appalling in the tears of a man, but
the benignant tenderness of the boy, however,
soon surmounted every other feeling. He wiped
away Mr. Flavel's tears, and caressed and soothed
him; and then whispering, as if he were afraid to
speak aloud on a subject that had called forth so
much emotion, “had I not best,” he asked, “run
and beg Dr. Eustace to come and see that man?”

“Dr. Eustace! who is he?”

“Our doctor—mother's doctor—the best doctor
in New York!”

“God bless you—yes—why did not I think of
it?—tell him I beg him to come instantly. No,
say nothing of me—here Frank—say nothing to
any one, not to your father even, of what you have
seen to-day—but this doctor will not come to this
poor devil—what shall we do?—I have money
enough to pay him for half a dozen visits—tell him
so, Frank.”

“Dr. Eustace does not care for the money, sir;”

said Frank, as he ran off, with all possible haste, on
his benevolent errand.

“Poor boy,” thought Mr. Flavel, “you must
yet learn that there are no disinterested services in
this world!” The doctor arrived in a few moments,
but not before Mr. Flavel had disciplined himself
into perfect self-command. As the doctor came
from Smith's room, Mr. Flavel stopped him in the
entry, and inquired if the poor man were still alive.
The doctor said “yes,” and that he thought it possible
he might be revived for a short time, as he had
probably fallen into his present state from extreme
exhaustion and helplessness.

“You hear what the doctor says,” said Mr. Flavel
to the landlady, who was also listening to the
doctor's report—“do your utmost—if the man dies
now, he dies from your neglect.”

The landlady put in her protest, and a just one,
but Mr. Flavel did not stay to listen to it.

Either his reproach, or the thought of the strong
box, which, it had already occurred to dame Quackenboss,
might, in default of heirs at law, escheat to
the mistress of the tenement, roused all her energies.
She prepared a warm bath, and did every thing
else the physician required, in the shortest possible
time. The warm bath and powerful stimulants
produced such an effect on the patient, that the stupor
gradually subsided, and when the physician saw
him in the evening, he was restored to consciousness.
This the doctor told Mr. Flavel, and said at
the same time, “the man must have died but for
the assistance given him to-day—the discovery of
his situation was quite providential.”

“Providential!” echoed Mr. Flavel in a sarcastic
tone, “the same Providence has interposed
that left the poor wretch pining in desertion, and
exposed to the accidents of starvation and death!”

“Yes, Sir,” replied the physician, “the same
Providence. I suspect, if we could read this man's
history, we should find that he is now enduring the
penalty which the wise government of Providence
has affixed to certain offences. I infer from all I
can learn from your landlady and from my own observation,
that this Smith is a miser, and that he is
dying of self-inflicted hardships, which have induced
a premature old age. I do not believe he is more
than fifty.”

“Fifty! good God!” exclaimed Mr. Flavel, in
a voice so startling that Dr. Eustace turned on him a
look of surprise and inquiry; but he instantly recovered
his self-possession, and added, “are you skilled?
are you accurate, doctor, in your observation of
ages?—The man seemed to me much older.”

“I am not infallible,” replied the doctor, “but
my profession naturally leads me to make nice observations
on the subject. I perceive in this man
indications of vigor quite incompatible with advanced
age in his present circumstances. The first
thing he did when he recovered a glimmering of
consciousness, was to look for a key which was
under him in the bed—he grasped it and held it
firmly clenched in his hand—so firmly that it would
have been difficult to have wrested it from him. A
painter could hardly have invented a better illustration
of miserliness than the apartment of this poor
wretch—the iron chest peeping from beneath his

bed, and its key still tenaciously held by the famished,
dying creature. My blood ran cold as I
looked at him. This evening his reason is stronger,
and I have persuaded him, as the fear of dropping
the key increased his restlessness, to let me attach it
to a cord and fasten it around his body.”

“Do you think him then quite rational this
evening?”

“Perfectly—perfectly himself, I fancy. I proposed
to send a nurse to him, but he protested most
vehemently against it, repeating again and again
that he was a `poor man—a poor man—nurses
were extortionate.' I told him I would defray the
expense for a night or two, for I thought I should
sleep better if I had not left him to die alone, but
he still remonstrated, saying that `a nurse would
burn a light all night; would eat up all he had;
would keep a fire;'—and on the whole I thought so
violent an interruption of his usual habits might do
him more harm than good.”

“He is then entirely alone?”

“Yes, but nothing can make any material difference
in his condition. This is but a temporary
revival. The man must die in the course of a day
or two.” The conversation was now turned from
Smith, but Dr. Eustace still prolonged his visit.
He found Mr. Flavel far more stimulating to his
curiosity, than the poor mendicant miser. He had
a variety of knowledge, a keenness of perception,
a lucid and striking mode of expressing his
thoughts, and withal, a vein of deep and bitter
misanthropy, that indicated a man of marked character
and singular experience. The doctor's professional

interest, too, was awakened. He saw Mr.
Flavel was suffering from severe physical derangement,
and he hinted to him the necessity of some
medical application, which Mr. Flavel declined, intimating
at the same time, his complete infidelity in
the science of medicine. The doctor soon after
took his leave, with a somewhat abated estimation
of his new acquaintance's sagacity. Few men,
however liberal, can bear to have their profession
disparaged.

At his usual hour Mr. Flavel retired to bed, but
not to sleep—the strange and strong emotions of the
morning had been soon subdued, and his subsequent
reflection had convinced him they must be groundless.
These reflections were in daylight, when
reason bears sway; but alone, in the stillness, darkness,
and deep retirement of the night, his imagination
resumed its ascendancy. That face, so well
known, so well remembered, so changed, and yet
the same, haunted him. The bare possibility that
it was the same, had awakened passions that he had
believed dead within him. He passed in review the
last few weeks of his life. He was himself changed
—he no longer `dwelt in despair.' His soul had
revived to kindly influences. The instrument, that
he believed broken and ruined, and that had sent
forth nothing but discord and wild sounds, had
responded music to the touch of nature—to the
breath of sympathy. “What was it in this boy,
whom he had so recently known, that had melted
his frozen affections? what, in his mild tender eye,
that pierced to the very depths of his soul?” His
thoughts again reverted to the strange agitations of

the morning—and again, the electric flash of hope
darted athwart his mind. He started from his bed.
“Are these the mysterious intimations of Providence?—
Providence! If such a power exists, it
has been to me oppressive—obdurate. Have I not
ceased to dread it?—to believe it? Still the web
of nursery superstition clings about me. I had
dreams last night of the long dead—forgiven—forgotten—forgotten!
Singular, that such dreams
should be followed by this strange event! Am I
doating? I must still this throbbing heart. I will
see him again, though the opened wound should
bleed to death!” Thus deciding, and obeying an
impulse of inextinguishable hope, Mr. Flavel took
his lamp, wrapped his dressing gown about him,
and cautiously ascended to Smith's apartment. He
found the room in darkness. He closed the door
after him and advanced to the foot of the bed.
The sick man was in a sweet slumber, but the sudden
light of the lamp falling directly across his
face awakened him. At first he seemed confused,
doubtful whether he still dreamed, or whether the
apparition before him were a reality or a spectre,
but in an instant the blood mounted into his pallid
face, and he made an effort to shriek for help. The
sound died on his powerless lips—drops of sweat
burst out on his forehead—he stretched out his arm
as if to repel the figure, and articulated in the lowest
whisper—“Not yet! I am not dead yet! oh don't
come yet!”

“Fool!—madman!—What do you take me for?
I am a living man—speak, speak to me once more.”
The affrighted wretch was confounded with a mingled

horror of the dead, and dread of the living—
the terrors of both worlds were before him—his eyes
were glued to Mr. Flavel, and his features seemed
stiffening in death. “Oh, speak to me!” reiterated
Mr. Flavel, agonized with the apprehension that he
was already past utterance. “Speak one word—
am I deceived?—or are you John Savil?”

“Clarence!” murmured the dying man.

Flavel staggered back and sunk into the chair—
a deadly faintness came over him, but in one instant
more the tide of life rushed back, and he darted to
the bed, crying, “Tell me, is he living?”

The poor wretch made an effort to reply, but the
accents died on his lips—there was a choaking
rattling in his throat—he attempted to sign with his
hand, but the weight of death was on it, and he
could not move a finger—he fixed his eye on Flavel
—its eager glance spoke—but was there life or
death in its language?—who should interpret it?

Flavel bent over him in torturing, breathless
expectation. The faint hue of life faded from his
lips. There was a slight convulsion in his throat,
and his eyes closed. Mr. Flavel rushed to the door
and called aloud, again and again, for help—no
one answered—no one heard him.

Again he returned to the bed and laid his hand
on the dying man's heart. It was still feebly beating.
“There is yet a spark of life,” he thought.
“It may be possible once more to revive him.”
A bottle of spirits of hartshorn was standing on
the table; he dashed it over his face, bosom, and
hands. Smith gasped, and unclosed his eyes. Mr.

Flavel administered a powerful stimulant—the effect
seemed miraculous—the mysterious energies of nature
were quickened—consciousness returned—and
after repeated efforts, he articulated, “he lives—
wait.”

Mr. Flavel pressed both his hands on his own heart,
which seemed as if it would leap from his bosom;
and warned by the effect of his first impetuosity,
he attempted to be calm, and to say deliberately,
“Savil, I'll forgive you every thing, if you'll
rouse your powers to tell me all you know.” He
again offered the medicinal draught.

The dying man received it passively, and shortly
after said, “I am too far gone to tell it!”

“God help me!” exclaimed Flavel, in utter despair.

“It is all written,” murmured Smith.

“Written!—where?”

“Oh! do not speak so loud to me. It is all
written; when I'm gone, you'll find it.”

“Where?—tell me where!”

“In my iron box.”

What the physician had said of the box and key
flashed upon Mr. Flavel's mind; he instantly dragged
the box from beneath the bed, threw open the blankets,
and tore the key from the skeleton body.

The ruling passion, strong in death, nerved
Smith with supernatural strength. He raised himself
in the bed—“Oh, don't take my money,” he
cried—“there is not much—'tis but such a little
while I want it—it is my all. Oh, there's somebody
coming—they'll see it—they'll see it—Oh, shut the
box!”

Mr. Flavel did not hear him; he heard nothing,
saw nothing but a manuscript, which he seized, and
dropping the lid and turning the key, he threw it on
the bed, and left the apartment, without seeing the
tears of joy that streamed from the miser's eyes, as,
sinking back, he breathed out his last breath, muttering,
“My money is safe!”