University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

The new-comer was one of whom the reader has
already heard. The quick eye of Vernon distinguished
his friend at a glance, nor was that of
the other less observant. The warmth of their embrace,
when they met, spoke for a deep mutual regard
between the two, not only superior to that
which belongs to ordinary friendships, but something
more than could be expected to appear in the case
of persons so unequal in years. Mr. Carter could
not have been less than forty-five; a tall, well made
man, with a fine, full, but dark countenance; an eye,
black and lively, but of benevolent expression; and
a look of amenity and kindness which denoted a degree
of soberness and subdued thought, in which the
buoyant spirits of the youth of twenty-five, could
scarcely find much that was congenial. Vernon
could not have been much more than twenty-five;
his temperament was evidently lively, if not rash;
and good humour and a playful spirit, seemed to
predominate in his disposition. The gravity, the almost
sadness, of Carter's countenance, was unreflected
in his own; and yet, it may be added, the

sympathy was quite as close between them, as could
be hoped for under any circumstances; and whatever
might be the difference of their moods and
wishes, under the influence of unequal ages, there
was none of that exacting severity, on the part of
Carter, or of that distaste to discipline, on the side
of Vernon, which might endanger the relation. If
Carter was grave, even to melancholy, he was, at
the same time, benign and indulgent. He could
make allowance for the impatience of youth, esteeming
it, perhaps, a fault that was not without
its virtues, in a country which calls more imperatively
for boldness and adventure, than any
other more sober qualities. If he smiled at the follies
of youth, it was the smile of indulgence, or, at most,
of pity, and not the ascetic grin of scorn and male-volence.
Vernon, on the other hand, warm, impetuous,
and lively, never once forgot the superior years
of his patron—for such was Carter—nor suffered his
veneration to undergo diminution, because the latter
sometimes encouraged him by the familiar freedoms
of the companion. The utmost confidence prevailed
between them, the result, possibly, of a mutual and perfect
knowledge of their several claims and character.
The observation of Carter had taught him that his
protegé was a man of the strictest honour, the nicest
sensibility, the most fearless courage, and the finest
talent. Vernon was no less assured of the high virtues
of one who had been to him a protecting and
wisely indulgent parent, in the place of all others,
from his very first moment of reflecting consciousness,
to that in which they meet the reader.

The entrance of Carter was the signal for the
flight of the soi-disant actor. His genius quailed before
the eye of the new-comer, in whom he recognized
a well known monitor, who did not spare his
rebuke, and whose influence upon the father, had

tended in no small degree to restrain his eccentricities,
by diminishing the money, which the old man
was but too ready to yield to his requisitions. Still,
the deportment of Carter was kind and gentle to him,
as to all the rest, and as it was, habitually, to every
body. His salutation differed not from his wont,
when he shook his hand, and bade him welcome
home, after so long an absence. But this forbearance
in no wise encouraged the erring Master Tom.
From a dashing, nonchalant personage, he became
suddenly subdued to the awkward country lout, only
anxious to know how best to effect his escape without
challenging attention to his movements. This he
was soon enabled to do, when he found the regards
of Carter chiefly bestowed upon the youth, and his
shoulder turned upon himself. He stole away, and
was followed after a little while, by old Horsey,
whom a sturdy negro assisted to his chamber. It
was there that he again found Young Hopeful, and
renewed the various dialogue, a sufficient sample of
which the reader has already had. We will not distress
him by a repetition of the dramatic slang, with
which Tom replied to, and annoyed his father; whose
chief objection to the quotations, lay, perhaps, in the
difficulty which he found to comprehend them. Our
present purpose carries us back to the apartment
which we left. There, the two, apparently resuming
a subject already partially considered, were earnestly
engaged in the adjustment of topics, the business of
which will form no small portion of the ensuing narration.
It may serve us, therefore, who design to
trace its progress to the end, to give some heed to a
conference which will, perhaps, the better enable us
to understand some of its objects, and of the histories
of those who are most conspicuous in its details.

“You are resolved then, my son; you know all

the adventure—its troubles, its dangers and the numberless
difficulties that surround it. These, you see,
at least, if nothing beside; and with a perfect knowledge
of these, and with the farther prospect of incurring
these risks and difficulties without effecting
your purpose, you freely and voluntarily determine
upon the journey?”

“Freely, willingly, my dear sir, and with a satisfaction,
not easily expressed, that I find you willing
to confide to me a charge of such importance,” was
the unhesitating reply of the youth.

The other squeezed his hand in silence for a few
moments ere he resumed.

“Perhaps, Harry, since such is your resolution, it
is due to you that I should unfold myself a little
more. Your confidence in me deserves it, and were
it not so, the confidence which I have in you leaves
me without fear that I incur a risk in giving you my
nearest secrets. From this I can suffer no harm,
now, not even in feeling, by its revelation. But a
few months, nay, a few weeks ago, it had been
otherwise. I am now free to relieve myself from
the accumulating pressure of a grief—a grief of
youth, that I have learned to silence, if not subdue,
—but which at length breaks from all restraints
when I am no longer young. You have seen this
man?”

“I have, sir.”

“Ay, but not to know him. He is my senior by
five years, but he was my associate—my friend—
when we were both young. Boyish friendships are
of little value at any time, and in most cases they
are of evil consequence. The name is perverted,
the tie is not an enduring one, and, even if other harm
does not come of it, the effect is evil in teaching us
lessons of distrust, when genuine worth implores our
confidence, and true friendship might be had by kindred

worth. But I will deal in facts and not in maxims.
William Maitland was my habitual associate
from boyhood. We came to Mississippi together,
and for several years I had no reason to regret my
confidence in him. We lived together harmoniously,
sought the same sports together, made the same journeys
in company, and took pleasure in the same society.
My labours grew prosperous, however, and
his did not. This made him discontented. He left
me and went down to Orleans, where he invested
his capital in trade. Two years elapsed before I
again saw him. I had in the meantime become acquainted
with the family of Col. Ralph Taylor, of
Pearl River. He was a worthy old gentleman, but the
chief attraction of his household in my eye, was his
youngest daughter Ellen. I loved her, Harry, with
all the ardour of a heart as purely unselfish in its
pursuit as belongs to mortal; but I told her not my
love. I feared to do it, as I saw nothing in her deportment
which, to my watchful eyes, held forth any
encouragement to my hopes. Perhaps it was, that,
with all the doubts and timidity of a true affection,
estimating its own claims at the humblest rate, as
sincere affection is most always apt to do, I shrunk
from pressing upon her those regards which I felt,
and occasioned a kindred doubt in her mind of my
real purposes. I had reason to think afterwards that
I deceived myself—that she really loved me—that—
but this is needless. Enough, that at this moment I
received a visit from Maitland. He came to borrow
money, and finding me not at home, and his wants
being pressing, he followed me to the residence of
Col. Taylor. There he saw Ellen; and, to shorten
a story already quite too long, there he won her.
But not at this first visit. He came back with me to
my residence, which was then at Woodville, and
procured the money which he required. But while
with me, he artfully procured from me all necessary
information with regard to the Taylor family—its
character, connexions and resources. I did not
reveal to him my feeling for Ellen, but he must have
seen it. A short time after this, while on a visit to
Natchez, I was seized with the yellow fever, which
nearly brought me to the grave. For days I remained
without consciousness of what was going on
around me; for weeks without strength to leave
my chamber. In this time Maitland prosecuted
opportunities which I had seemed to neglect. He
pressed his pretensions upon Ellen, and in a moment
of wilfulness of heart, such as seizes upon the
best of us at times, she accepted him. I had reason
to know afterwards that she had not been insensible
to my attentions, and that she was taught to believe
that I had trifled with her. William Maitland knew
of my illness all the while, but studiously withheld
the utterance of what he knew. The first knowledge
I had of my loss was the notice of their marriage in
one of the Orleans papers, to which city he removed
her a short time after the event. Since then I have
but once seen her, and then—”

Carter paused in his narrative as if struggling with
the climax of those emotions with which he had evidently
striven earnestly, for some time before. He
rose from his chair and paced the room a while, the
eyes of Vernon in the meantime being fixed upon
the fireplace.

“I had thought myself too old and too strong for
these weaknesses, Harry, but the affections which
grow up in solitude seldom become obtuse. Were
I a citizen, now, I could deliver you this narrative
with a smile; but, as I am, I almost regret that I
have begun it.”

“Do not, then, pursue it, sir, I beg you,—at least
not on my account,” said Vernon.

“Nay, nay, Harry, it is begun, and the beginning
is half the battle always. I must now finish it, or
never. I trust, having opened my bosom to you, to
be better able to preserve silence on this subject for
ever after. The affair staggered me in regard to
Maitland's sincerity and faith. I was puzzled to determine
upon his conduct; and my chief suspicions
arose, not so much from his having married, as from
the studious secrecy which he had observed towards
me on the subject. I got no letter from him; I
heard of no inquiry or invitation—nothing, indeed,
of him or of his business, until he had removed her
to Orleans. He had need of me again. He became
the candidate for an office of great trust, and applied
to me to be his surety. It was then that I saw Ellen
Taylor for the first, and, I may almost say, the last
time, as the wife of another. She is in her grave
now; but it will not disparage her memory, with
you, my son, when I tell you, that it was from her
but half conscious lips, that I was taught to believe
that I might have been the happy possessor of her
hand, as, to the last, I was the possessor of her heart.
Do not attach blame to the pure spirit of her from
whom this confession came. It was while her mind
wandered in the delirium from which she never recovered,
that her sweet lips told me this blessed truth.
I kissed them, Harry, in a fond requital, when the
angel had left the tenement in which it had been so
troubled! I kissed them, Harry, when, colder than
the marble which was so soon to cover her, I well
knew that there was no danger that his lips would
remove the sad and sacred seal which mine had set
upon them!”

The struggling tear of Harry Vernon soon followed
that of his patron. His silence was the best
show of sympathy that his good sense suffered him
to make. The other after a brief pause proceeded.

“The surety I then gave is the cause of our trouble
now, as you may readily suppose. But for her,
Harry, I had not given him my name, for I had sufficient
reason then to distrust him; and, but for her—
but that I still loved, rashly enough for any sacrifice
—I had not been guilty of the greater folly of persuading
our friend Gamage to a similar risk. The
defalcation of Maitland will nearly ruin Gamage as
well as myself. But this I cannot suffer. As it was
because of my entreaties that he consented to sign
Maitland's bond with me, I must save him harmless
as far as I can. To this point then, your commission
extends. Let Maitland give up the money which he
is known to have taken from the Bank, and we will
pledge ourselves not to prosecute, and I will secure
to his children,—he has but two—the amount of
twenty-five thousand dollars, in any form of investment
which he may prescribe, so that it be under
any disposal but his own. Nor shall he be left otherwise
unconsidered in the matter. I will give him
my bond, stipulating the annual payment while he
lives of three hundred and fifty dollars, being a sum
quite sufficient for his wants in that privacy to which
he must, for his own and the sake of his children,
for ever after confine himself. He will see from this,
if he be not besotted and ripe for destruction, that I
have no disposition to pursue him with malice. But
my forbearance is no tribute to my regard for him,
any more than to his worth. But he is the father of
her children, and I would wish to save them from that
shame and sorrow which justice might, without compunction,
freely visit upon him. You now understand,
precisely, the relation between us, and will
thus be better able to exercise that discretionary
power in any arrangement you may think advisable
to make, which you could not so well have done
without this knowledge. I am guilty of no ill-advised

or idle flattery, my dear Harry, when I declare
my perfect willingness to rely upon your judgment
and to abide by any course which you may resolve
upon. I have found you always worthy; I doubt not
that your ability will keep pace with your worth.
But you have no easy task, and your hope of success
will depend very much upon your being unknown
to Maitland. But for the risk of spoiling all,
you should not go alone upon this mission, nor, perhaps,
should you have gone at all. My appearance
would alarm his fears and prompt his flight, and indeed,
the appearance of any stranger will have a
tendency to awaken his fears and compel his caution.
He, no doubt, wherever he may be, will have
his creatures on the watch, and be himself watchful.
Your genius must contrive its own modes for disarming
his fears, and appearing in his neighbourhood
as an ordinary character. I can give you but
little counsel that is not general. One rule is a good
one always among strangers in our country, and
that is to “be secret, yet have no secrets.” Utter
yourself without reserve, yet say nothing which had
better be reserved. Have no mysteries to your
neighbour, though every thought be hidden. This
is enough, your own reflection must do the rest. I
have wearied out your patience, Harry, but I have
now finished.”

“You spoke, sir, of his connexion with gamblers:
Is this certain?”

“Yes; he is known to have lost a part of the
property which came by his wife at faro in Orleans.
He is also known to have frequented places
of habitual resort by the blacklegs of that city. What
connexion he may have with them now, is simply
conjectural, but there is great reason to fear that his
separation from them will never be complete while
he lives. He had a passion for play which has probably

grown upon him, and which will no doubt
lose him his ill-gotten spoils, unless he is very closely
and suddenly pressed for them.”

“May he not have lost these moneys already, sir,
—may not his defalcation and flight have resulted
from his losses.”

“I hope not, and think not, for we happen to know
that the particular parcels of gold and paper which
he took, were in the Bank up to within three hours
of his flight.”

“That may be, sir, yet he may have appointed
the sums taken, for the payment of previous losses.”

“This is probable in part. I make no doubt that
he was compelled to appropriate in this manner, but
it seems scarcely probable that he would have fore-borne
supplying himself with the means of future indulgence
or support. That he did not appear at the
tables after the robbery, we know from those whom
the Bank set as spies upon them. Suppose, however,
that ten thousand dollars be already gone,
which will be a liberal allowance, we can afford
that,—we must, indeed, and something more,—but
let us struggle for the rest. I make no secret to you,
Harry, of the fact that my own responsibilities to
the Bank, and the resolve which I have taken that
Gamage shall go harmless, will leave me destitute,
—utterly destitute,—unless we recover something of
this loss.”

“My efforts shall not be wanting,” was the simple
assurance of the youth; “you have provided the
necessary papers, sir?”

“I will do so, and expect the other documents from
Orleans, by Friday next. You will be compelled
to defer your departure until then. Meanwhile, it
may be well if you attend upon the court. It will
help to conceal your present object,—which it is important
that you should conceal here as elsewhere,—

if you should appear like the rest of your profession
seeking its usual opportunities. I doubt whether
you'll get business, but that lack is too general among
beginners to occasion wonder; and it will be quite
enough to show that you want, and would not refuse
it, if it were to offer. But let us take a breathing
spell—you have ridden well to-day, and so have I.
A good night's sleep will freshen our minds, and probably
help us to new ideas. You saw the youth,—
the son of Mr. Horsey,—had he been long before
me?”

“An hour, perhaps—not more.”

“A thoughtless, improvident lad, with some capacity,
but little ballast. With his own turn of mind,
and his father's indulgence, he will come to nothing.
Caught young, and in other hands, he would have
done well. It is too late now. I need not counsel
you to say nothing that he should not hear; but,
keep your papers close; make no memorandums
that he may read. He is honest, I believe, but has
a prying, curious disposition, as much the result of
an idle, restless mood, as of any thing else. Let
him not feed it at our expense, when a little timely
prudence may save us any risk. And now to bed,
Harry, as Master Tom would phrase it, with what
appetite we may.”