 | CHAPTER IV.
The Miser's children. Sheppard Lee |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
The Miser's children.
It will scarcely be supposed that, with the passion
of covetousness gnawing at my heart, I had
space or convenience for any other feeling. But
Abram Skinner had loved his children; and to this
passion I was introduced, as well as to the other.
At first I was surprised that I should bestow the
least regard upon them, seeing that they were no
children of mine. I endeavoured to shake off the
feeling of attachment, as an absurdity, but could
not; in spite of myself, I found my spirit yearning
towards them; and by-and-by, having lost my
identity entirely, I could scarcely, even when I
made the effort, recall the consciousness that I
was not their parent in reality.
Indeed, the transformation that had now occurred
to my spirit was more thorough than it had
been in either previous instance; I could scarce
convince myself I had not been born the being I
my reflections only as some idle dream, that the
fever of sickness had brought upon my mind; and
I forgot that I was, or had been, Sheppard Lee.
Yes, reader, I was now Abram Skinner in all
respects, and I loved his children, as he had done
before me. In entering his body, I became, as I
have mentioned repeatedly before, the subject of
every peculiarity of being that marked the original
possessor: without which, indeed, the great experiment
my destiny permitted me to make of the
comparative good and evil of different spheres of
existence, must have been made in vain. What my
prototype hated I was enforced to hate; what he
loved I found myself compelled in like manner to
love. While moving in the bodies of John H.
Higginson and I. D. Dawkins, I do not remember
that I experienced any affection for anybody; which
happened, doubtless, because these individuals confined
their affections to their own persons. Abram
Skinner, on the contrary, loved his children; which
I suppose was owing to their being the worst children
that ever tormented a parent. He loved them,
and so did I; he pondered with bitterness over the
ingratitude of their tempers, and the profligacy of
their lives, and I—despite all my attempts to the
contrary—did the same. I forgot, at last, that I
was not their parent, and my feelings showed me
that I was; and I found in the anguish that attacked
my spirit, when I thought of them, one of the
modes in which Heaven visits with retribution the
the votary of Mammon has propitiated his deity,
let him count the children he has sacrificed upon
his altar. Avarice, as well as wrath, sows the
storm only to reap the whirlwind.
I am growing serious upon this subject, but I
cannot help it. This portion of my history dwells
on my remembrance with gloom; it keeps me
moralizing over the career of my neighbours.
When I see or hear of a man who is bending all
his energies to the acquisition of a fortune, and is
already the master of his thousands, I ask, “What
has become of his sons?” or, “What will become
of them?”
With the affection for the children of Abram
Skinner that took possession of my mind, came
also a persuasion, exceedingly painful, that they
were a triad of graceless, ungrateful reprobates;
and, what was worse, there was something whispered
within me that much, if not all, the evil of their
lives and natures, was owing to the neglect in which
their parent, while engrossed with the high thought
of heaping up money, had allowed them to grow
up. The consequences of this neglect I felt as
if it had been my own act.
The first pang was inflicted by the girl Alicia,
and I felt it keenly—not, indeed, that I had any
particular parental affection for her, as doubtless I
should have had, had she not run away so opportunely.
On the contrary, a vague recollection of
my amour, and the inconstancy of her temper,
very peculiar hue; so that I regarded her with
sentiments due as much to the jilted lover as the
injured father. But what chiefly afflicted me was
the hint she had given in the postscript of her letter,
warning me of the fatal call to be made upon
me, within two months' space, to render up an account
of my guardianship, and surrender into
the hands of that detestable Sammy Wilkins, my
late cousin, the rich legacy of her aunt Sally,
which, being chiefly in real estate, I—or rather my
prototype before me—had, without anticipating
such a catastrophe, managed so prudently that it
was now worth more than double its original value.
The thought filled me with such rage and phrensy,
that, had she been twice my daughter, I should
have rewarded her with execrations.
My quondam uncle, Mr. Samuel Wilkins of Wilkinsbury
Hall, who, it seems, received the girl as
well as he afterward did his daughter's husband,
thought fit to pay me a visit, a week after my transformation,
to confer with me on the subject; and
receiving no satisfaction, for I was in a rage and
refused to see him, sent me divers notes, proposing
a reconciliation betwixt myself and his daughter-in-law;
and these being cast into the fire, I received,
in course of time, a letter from his lawyer,
or his son Sammy's, in which I was politely asked
what were my intentions in relation to settlement,
and so forth, and so forth.
I received letters from the damsel also, but they
waxing higher and higher as the time of settlement
drew nigh, I set myself to work to frame such a
guardian's account as would materially lessen the
amount of my losses.
But all was in vain; the married Alicia was at
last of age, and all I could do was to fling the
matter into the lawyers' hands, so as to keep the
money, the dear money, in my own as long as possible.
My reader may think this was not a very handsome
or reputable way of treating a daughter; but
he must recollect I was in Abram Skinner's body.
The matter was still in suit when I departed from
my borrowed flesh; but I have no doubt the execrable
Samuel Wilkins, Jr. got possession of the legacy,
as well as ten times as much to the back of it.
But this, great as was the anguish the evil inflicted,
was nothing to the pangs I suffered on account
of the two boys, Ralph and Abbot. On these I
showered—not openly, indeed, for I was crabbed
enough of temper, but in my secret heart—all the
affection such a parent could feel. But I showered
it in vain; the seeds of evil example and neglect
had taken root; the prospect of wealth had long
since turned brains untempered by education and
moral culture, and the parsimony of their parent
only drove them into profligacy of a more demoralizing
species; they were ruined in morals, in prospects,
and in reputation; and while yet upon the
threshold of manhood, they presented upon their
untimely graves.
The younger, Abbot, had evidently been a favourite
from his childhood up, his temper being
fierce and imperious, yet with an occasional dash
of amiableness, that showed what his disposition
might have been, if regulated by a careful and conscientious
parent. He possessed a fine figure, of
which he was vain; and being of a gay and convivial
turn, there was the stronger propensity to
dissipation, and greater fear of the consequences.
These were now lamentable enough; he was already
beyond redemption—a sot, and almost a madman.
The elder brother was a young man, to all appearance,
of a saturnine mood and staid habits; but
this was in appearance only. He was the associate
of the junior in all his scenes of frolic, and
an actor in others of which, perhaps, Abbot never
dreamed. A strong head and a spirit of craft enabled
him to conceal the effect of excesses which
sent his brother home reeling and raging with
drunkenness. I knew his habits well; and I knew
that, besides being in a fairer way to the grave—if
not to the gallows—he was a hypocrite of the
worst order; his gravity being put on to cover a
temper both fiery and malicious, and his apparent
correctness of habits being the mere cover to the
most scandalous irregularities. He was a creature
all of duplicity, and wo to the father who made
him such!
The scene in the dying chamber of their father
they never forgot, though, perhaps, I might have
done so. It drove the younger from all attempts
at pretended regard or concealment of his profligacy,
and was, I believe, the cause of his final
ruin. He absconded, out of mere shame, for a
week, and then returned to put a bold or indifferent
face upon the matter, and to show himself as regardless
of respect as restraint.
The other, after concealing himself in like manner
for a few days, came to me, apparently in great
contrition of spirit, and almost persuaded me that
his brutal conduct on that eventful evening arose
rather from grief than joy. He had been so much
affected by my death, he assured me, as scarce to
know what he did when swallowing a glass of
brandy his brother gave him; that, he declared with
half a dozen tears, had set him crazy, and he knew
not what he had done—only he recollected something
about going to the chamber, where, he believed,
he had behaved very badly; for which he
begged my forgiveness, and hoped I would not
think his conduct was owing to any want of affecttion.
I had proof enough that the villain was telling
me falsehoods, and I knew that if either should, in
a moment of soberness and compunction, breathe
a single sigh over my death-bed, he was not the
one. In truth, they were both bad; both, perhaps,
irreclaimable; but while the conduct of Abbot
gave me most pain, that of Ralph filled me with
of speculation and gain could have made tolerable
an existence cursed by incessant griefs and forebodings.
It may be supposed that I frequently took the
young men to task for their excesses. I might as
well have scolded the winds for blowing, or the
waters for running. It is true that Ralph heard
me commonly with great patience, and sometimes
with apparent contrition; but at times a scowl came
over his dark features that frightened me into silence;
and once, giving way to his fierce temper,
he told me that if there was any thing amiss or disreputable
in his conduct, it was the consequence
of mine; that I, instead of granting him the means
for reasonable indulgence, and elevating him to the
station among honourable and worthy men to which
my wealth gave him a claim, and which he had a
right to expect of me, had kept him in a state of
need and vassalage intolerable to any one of his
age and spirit.
As for Abbot, this kind of recrimination was a
daily thing with him. I scarce ever saw him except
when inflamed with drink; and on such occasions
he was wont to demand money, which being
denied, he would give way to passion, and load me
with reproaches still more bitter of spirit and violent
of expression than those uttered by Ralph.
Nay, upon my charging him with being an abandoned
profligate and ruined man, he admitted the
fact, and swore that I was the author of his destruction;
the opportunities that gave other young men professions
and independence; that I had brought him
up in idleness and ignorance, and, by still refusing
him his rights, was consigning him to infamy and
an early grave.
Such controversies between us were common,
and perhaps expedited the fate that was in store for
him, as well as his brother. I thought in my folly
to punish, and at the same time check his excesses,
by denying him all supplies of money, and by refusing
to pay a single debt he contracted. A deep
gloom suddenly invested him; he ceased to return
home intoxicated, but stalked into and out of the
house like a spectre, without bestowing any notice
upon me. The change frighted me; and, in alarm
lest the difficulties under which he might be placed
were driving him to desperation, I followed him to
his chamber, with almost the resolution to relieve
his wants, let them be what they might.
The absence of intoxication for several days in
succession had induced me to hope he had broken
through the accursed bondage of drink, were it only
from rage and shame. But I was fatally mistaken.
As I entered the apartment I saw him place upon
the table a large case-bottle of brandy, which he
had just taken from a buffet. He looked over his
shoulder as I stepped in, and, without regarding
me, proceeded to pour a large draught into a tumbler.
His hand was tremulous, and, indeed, shook
so much, that the liquor was spilt in the operation.
seeing which he laughed, with what seemed to me
as much triumph as derision, and said, “You see!
This is the way we go it. Your health, father.
Come, help yourself; don't stand on ceremony.”
“I, Abbot!” said I, as he swallowed the vile potion;
“have you neither respect nor shame? I
never drank such poison in my life!”
“The more is the pity,” muttered the young
man, but rather as if speaking to himself than me;
“I should have had the sooner and freer swing of it.”
“You mean if it had killed me, as it is killing
you,” said I, pierced by the heartlessness of his
expression. “Oh, Abbot! a judgment will come
upon you yet!”
He stared me in the face, but without making a
reply. Then pushing a chair towards me, he sat
down himself, and deliberately filled his glass a
second time.
“Abbot! for Heaven's sake,” said I, wringing
my very hands in despair, “what will tempt you to
quit this horrid practice?”
“Nothing,” said he; “you have asked the question
a month too late. Look,” he continued, pointing
my attention again to his hand, shaking, as it
held the bottle, as if under the palsy of age; “do
you know what that means?”
“What does it mean?” said I, so confounded
by the sight and his stolid merriment (for he laughed
again while exposing the fruit of his degrading
habit) that I scarce knew what I said.
“It means,” said he, “that death is coming, to
make equitable division betwixt Ralph and Alicia—
unless the devil, after all, should carry them off before
me; in which case you can build an hospital
with your money.”
He swallowed the draught, and then, leaning on
the table, buried his face between his hands.
The sarcasm was not lost upon me, and the idea
that he was about to become the victim of a passion
from which he might be wrested by a sacrifice on
my part, greatly excited my feelings.
“I will do any thing,” said I; “what shall I do
to save you? Oh, Abbot! can you not refrain from
this dreadful indulgence? What shall I do?”
He leaped upon his feet, and eyed me with a
look full of wildness.
“Pay my debts,” he cried; “pay my debts, and
make me independent; and I—I'll try.”
“And what,” said I, trembling with fear, “what
sum will pay your debts?”
“Twenty thousand—perhaps,” said he.
“Twenty thousand! what! twenty thousand
dollars!” cried I, lost in confusion.
“You won't, then?” said the reprobate.
“Not a cent!” cried I, in a fury. “How came
you to owe such a sum? Do you think I will believe
you? How could you incur such a debt?
What have you been doing?”
“Gambling, drinking, and so forth, and so forth,
twenty times over.”
He snatched up the bottle, and, locking it in the
seizing upon his hat, and stepping to where I stood,
transfixed with grief and indignation, he said,—
“You won't take the bargain, then?”
“Not a dollar, not a dime, not a cent!” said I.
“Not even to save my life, father?”
“Not a dollar, not a dime, not a cent!” I reiterated,
incapable of saying another word.
“Farewell then,” said he, “and good luck to
you! It is a declaration of war, and now I'll keep
no terms with you.”
Then giving me a look that froze my blood, it
was so furiously hostile and vindictive, he struck
his hands together, rushed from the house, and I
saw him no more for nearly a fortnight. I saw him
no more, as I said; but coming home the following
evening from the club, I found my strong-box broken
open and rifled of the money that I left in it.
The sum was indeed but small, but the robbery
had been perpetrated by my own son; and the
reader, if he be a father, will judge what effect this
discovery produced upon my mind. In good truth,
I felt now that I was the most wretched of human
beings, and was reduced nearly to distraction.
But this blow was but a buffet with the hand, compared
with the thunder-bolt that fate was preparing
to launch against my bosom. I cursed my miserable
lot; yet it wanted one more stroke of misfortune
to sever the chain with which avarice still
bound me to my condition.
| CHAPTER IV.
The Miser's children. Sheppard Lee | |