University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

Dayton.

Poor Mary, as she was familiarly called, was
a most singular creature; her countenance invariably
wore a vacant expression, and all of her
movements were so uncertain, many of them unmeaning,
that they seemed to be directed rather by
a dim instinct, than by any gleams of reason.
Such had been her character for years; long, blank
years they must have been to that almost inanimate
creature. Let those who crushed the flower tell
how many dreary years it had been since they left
the leafless stalk to sway listlessly in the winds!
But of late, it seemed as though a light had been
struggling to break through the mists that shrouded
her poor mind; and she moved somewhat less
methodically, her actions appeared to be more the
effect of impulse, and her gaze grew less vacant.
This change, though but a slight one indeed,
escaped not the observation of little Edith; nor was
it unnoticed by Fitful, the melancholy state of
whose own mind but ill fitted him to discover the
wavering of another. But step aside, poor Mary,
for awhile; step aside, thou broken-hearted thing!

while we usher upon the stage those who, with all
their quantum of reason, are far from being thy
peers! whose souls are bound to earth by a thousand
chains of selfishness and guilt, whilst thine
stands waiting, as it has done this many a day, to
depart (when the angel shall beckon) for its bright
home.

Some hours had elapsed after the recital of
Paul's story, when two men glided cautiously into
the residence of Nathaniel Munson, and ascending
a couple of dark flights of stairs, passed into a little
room, and carefully fastened the door behind them.
One of these persons was a short, stout man, of
about sixty years of age; his ill-shapen features
were dark and weatherbeaten; he wore a seaman's
jacket that had evidently been made for a much
taller individual; his broad checkered collar was
thrown open, displaying a short, muscular neck,
and his appearance altogether gave strong indications
that his vocation was that of a marine.

“There, stand still by the door till I strike a
light,” said his companion. When the stump of a
tallow candle, that was stuck in a little rusty candlestick,
was lighted, the dim blaze flickered on the
shrivelled features of the old Quaker, Nathaniel
Munson. There was a grim look of satisfaction on
his countenance as he passed a backless chair to
his companion and invited him to be seated, but
that expression gave place to another, a little less
satisfied, when the stranger, with a curse, kicked

the chair aside, and mounted himself on the top of
an old, strongly-bound chest, and, with a malicious
grin, rapped on the lid with the iron hook that was
appended to his right arm in lieu of a hand, and
exclaimed, “No, no, my old comrade, rickety
crickets and chairs for land-lubbers, but give me a
seat on the old chest that looks rusty on the outside
but bright inside; it does one good to be near it,
you know, comrade; ah, ha, ha, ho, ho!” Here
the old sailor rapped so loud on the lid with the
hook, and glanced at the Quaker with so much
significance, that Munson trembled with terror, and
begged him to be quiet, lest he might alarm the
house.

“You 're afraid that I might disturb some of these
bright little fellows in here, too, aint you, eh?”

“O no, no, no!” exclaimed the Quaker, with
great earnestness; “there is n't any thing there,
nothing in the world but rubbish. Besides, thee
knows (and here he assumed a very meek face) I
am a poor man, not worth a cent when my debts
are paid — not a cent. Thee knows that my purse-strings
have always been too loose to keep money;
think what sums I have paid thee, and made myself
very poor to do it, very poor! Thee knows I
am thy only friend, and am willing to do a little
yet, a very little, for I am poor!”

At the conclusion of this speech, Munson puckered
his face up into the meanest expression possible,
dropped it into his neck-cloth, and peered at

his companion through his straggling eyebrows,
while the other replied, “Curse your `thee's,' and
your meek Quaker face; drop 'em at once, for you
always mean some bloody rascality when you take
to 'em; so talk up like a man, and tell me what
your're a going to give to get rid of this boy?”

“Not so loud!” said Munson, imploringly.

“Well, then, how much?” exclaimed the other,
in the loudest whisper possible.

“Could n't thee do it for old acquaintance' sake,
eh?” said the Quaker, assuming a very affectionate
tone.

“O, certainly!” answered the sailor, with a
fiendish grin; “our acquaintance has been so very
pleasant, so bloody pleasant, and profitable to me
in particular, you know!”

“Yes, certainly,” said Munson, drawing his chair
nearer to the other; “thee knows we have been
like brothers!”

“Yes, comrade,” was the reply, “brothers in
bloody crimes! And I've had enough of 'em,
unless you can talk up to a lively tune with these
here musicians.” As he spoke, he brought a very
loud rap on the top of the box, plainly indicating
that he knew the nature of its contents.

“Well, how much?” inquired the Quaker.

“Why, let me see,” said the sailor; “to get him
off, and then lose him overboard —”

“Yes, yes,” ejaculated Munson, rubbing his
hands with delight.

“To get him off—that's worth five hundred;
and to lose him overboard — not less than five hundred
more; so we 'll say one thousand dollars.”

“Impossible!” answered the Quaker, quite
crest-fallen.

“Very well!” exclaimed the other, with indifference,
“it 'd be a cheap bargain at that; but you
know best, do as you please; it 's nothing to me,
you know.”

“That's a great sum,” said Munson, contemplating
the old chest.

“Maybe the boy may call on you for a greater
sum, one o' these days, unless you take care of
him,” was the answer.

“Ay, ay, he must be taken care of!” ejaculated
the Quaker. “But then if I induce the boy to go
with the silly notion of visiting Italy, as I have
heard him say he would like to do when he became
able, I shall have to put a good round sum in his
pocket; and I could n't afford so much.”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed the sailor; “do you think
I'd let him go to Davy Jones with five hundred
dollars in his wallet? no, no; give him that amount,
and give me the balance, and call it a bargain.
Do ye see, I do n't want to cheat you, or I'd let
you buy him off the best way you could and make
so much the more out o' the speculation; but I'm
honest, and would n't do it with an old comrade!”
As he spoke he drew himself up as if perfectly
conscious of his superiority, and he must have

looked, with that cut-throat face of his, the very
ideal of honesty; none could have doubted him;
even Nathaniel Munson himself must have suffered
in comparison.

“If I succeed in this plan,” said Munson, “I
have, then, but one more to take care of.”

“Yes, you have one more,” answered the other,
tapping the box rather lightly, this time.

“He will be your second victim,” continued the
Quaker.

“You might have said the fiftieth,” replied the
sailor, with a sneer.

“Well, well, fiftieth, if you please; but you will
help him out of the way for the sake of an old
grudge, eh?”

“Perhaps so.”

“You hate him?”

“I do; he isn't a friend of mine, as you are,
you know, Nat, eh?”

“And you would — ”

“Yes, murder him!” said the man with the iron
hook, finishing the sentence; “for a small consideration.”

“A very small one,” continued Munson, looking
wistfully in his companion's face.

“Yes, I said so,” was the reply. “And I suppose
you will rest contented, having only the blood
of three on your conscience.”

“No, no!” cried the Quaker, looking wildly at
his companion; “I did n't do it!”

The other shrugged his shoulders significantly,
and gazed with a malicious smile into Munson's
face. And he added, “You are sure that you can
manage the girl?”

“Ay, ay, never fear; my son will help me do
that; and for that old idiot, the woman, she does n't
know enough to interfere.”

“Yes, comrade, you 're right; that son o' yours
'll help you to do any thing that smacks of villainy,
depend on 't; he 's been my mate long enough for
that.”

Munson peered up in the other's face with a look
of deep satisfaction and pride; and observed, “If
we succeed, the property — I mean the very little
that I have been looking to — will be secured to us,
and no one can ever come up to dispute it.”

“Unless they be bloody ghosts!” answered the
sailor.

“Don't, don't talk of such ugly things!” cried
the Quaker, with a shudder.

“As you please, comrade,” was the reply.
“Now that we understand each other, good night.
But look out for ghosts, he, he! look out for thieves,
ho, ho! lock it up tight, and cover your head close
under the blankets, to-night, for there be thieves
and ghosts about! he, he, ho, ho!”

“Did n't you hear a footstep on the stairs?” said
Munson, trembling from head to foot.

“Thieves and ghosts! ho, ho!” was the reply.

The Quaker followed his companion down stairs,

who went tapping his iron hook on the balusters all
the way to the bottom, disregarding the nudging
and coaxing of the other. And when Munson
opened the door for him to depart, he observed a
cloaked female, pass quickly around the corner of
the street. That night, poor Mary arrived unexpectedly
at the apartment of Fiery Fitful.