 | CHAPTER XI. Clinton Bradshaw, or, The adventures of a
lawyer |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
Bradshaw appeared for Garson, made a very
able defence for him, and he was acquitted. This,
with his previous reputation as a speaker, and a
young man of great talents, threw him into a very
extensive criminal practice. He defended every
one who applied to him, from a petty larceny,
through all the grades of crime. In this way, he
became acquainted with almost every criminal, and
with every constable, watchman, and rioter in the
city.
One day, Jekyl called to see him, and invited
him to his wedding. “I am going to be married,”
said he, “to-morrow evening. I have a shop of my
own now, as you know, and I am doing a pretty
good business.
“How do you come on with that newspaper?”
asked Bradshaw.
“Why, I assist Branson in writing for it occasionally;
he thinks my plain way of scribbling, and
my being a mechanic, help it along with my brother
mechanics. When I first wrote little pieces
for my own amusement, he looked over the grammar
and punctuation; but since, I have applied myself
hard in what leisure time I had, and I now can
correctness. I attend strictly to my business through
the day, but at night, and on Sundays, I study close
—and I have learned, while working in my shop,
to arrange my ideas, so that I can go home and
write them right off. I wish I had more time. I
improved myself the most when I was sick, and
staid at your father's. It was the happiest time of
my life. Rebecca, when we are married, will help
me on a good deal. She has some little money,
five hundred dollars, with which I can extend my
trade; and she makes these patent stocks, by which
she gets a good deal. I think I might buy out,
probably, Branson, in the Mechanics' Advocate.
I should like to do it. But it seems to me like presumption,
in taking the control of a paper. It is
only a weekly paper, to be sure, but it has a good
circulation among the mechanics, and they generally
pay well; but I never could make it fashionable,
or get it among the merchants.”
“I'll tell you what it is, Jekyl,” said Bradshaw;
“think seriously on the subject. You can obtain
valuable correspondents, I know. There's Willoughby;
his sketches of Kentuck character are
admirable. Those pieces of his, published in the
Patriot, have been copied and praised every where.
I saw one of them, the other day, in an English
paper, and spoken of very highly. Cavendish is
always taking notes of the trials at court, and it
would give him the greatest pleasure to furnish
you with the leading cases. As for myself, why,
you know, if I can do any thing for you, I am entirely
at your service, not only in the way of scribbling,
I could occasionally help you out. I obtain pretty
heavy fees from some of the rascals whom I defend.
I sometimes spend them in books—all sorts—see
how I have stocked my library—or in other ways,
which don't make me such a grateful return—and
if you would come and borrow it from me, and pay
it when you choose—when it is convenient—it
would do me a service, for I should study more
and feel better. Think well on it first, Jekyl, and
when you decide—if you let me know some time
before you take hold—I can obtain for you some
communications that may be of service to you. So
to-morrow night you are to be Benedict, the married
man, hey? Well, I don't know when my turn
will come.”
On the appointed evening, Bradshaw attended
the wedding, and was delighted with the unsophisticated
character of the couple. He met there
many of Jekyl's friends, with whom he was very
popular. It was late when he left; and he stopped
at a grocery, kept by a celebrated electioneering
character, near by, which made him very
late on his way home. It was a cloudy night; the
wind blew in gusts, and the lamps, not being well
protected from it, shed an uncertain beam, which
rendered objects indistinct and deceptive. Sometimes
the wind would entirely subside, and the
flame of the lamp would be erect, shedding over
the pavement a steady track of light; but, in an
instant, objects would be so changed to the eye of
Bradshaw by the flying dust and flickering flame,
that he would fancy impediments in his way, and
in passing up the Main Street, owing to
obstructions consequent upon laying and repairing
the hydrant pipes, in that more public way,
Bradshaw took a round-about direction, and entered
a more lonely and less respectable avenue.
Several outrages had been committed at this period
upon passengers; and in the loneliness of the
place, and from its character, Bradshaw, though
courageous, felt that there was very little chance
of assistance, should he be beset. The night grew
darker, and the gusts of wind louder and more
frequent—in the pauses of the gusts his steps
sounded along the streets without any interruption
to their echoes. All at once a voice broke
forth from a by-street, leading into the one on
which he trod some ten or fifteen yards above
him; and, as he advanced, he heard a person, who
seemed to be a lad, say, “Don't hold me so tight.”
Some one replied, very gruffly, “I know you
of old, you young rascal; you have escaped me
before, but you don't do it this time, by gad.
You think you've a right to set the town to rights,
do you? I've set it to rights, too, I can tell
you; this very night I made one of your fellows
feel this pantron, though he was a man, and had
stolen a genteel suit to play gentleman in.”
“I've been with nobody but Carnish, and big
Bob, to-night,” replied the other; “and the street
is as good for me as it is for you, though you be
a watchman.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don't know,” was the reply.
“If I get you into the jail once, I'll have it
poured into you—now mind me. They say you
have been stealing, and to jail you go.”
By this time the persons entered the street in
which Bradshaw was, at the moment he reached
the intersection. They proved to be a watchman
and a lad, both of whom Bradshaw recognised.
The watchman was a strong, athletic man, named
Johnson, who was known to be cruel, and at once
a coward and a bully, and vindictive in the extreme.
The boy was called Fritz, a notorious
character, and known to the police for his viciousness,
and a certain dash of wild justice and magnanimity
which blazed out in his worst actions. He
had several times been indicted for assaults and
house-breakings; but he had always contrived to
escape, either by his own ingenuity or that of his
counsel. He possessed one striking virtue in the
eye of a lawyer—he always paid his fee: and if
he had no money to pay it at the time the service
was rendered, his promise to pay was religiously
kept. Bradshaw had twice appeared for
him, and had succeeded in getting him off; he
had a sort of liking for him.
Without letting Fritz know that he recognised
him, Bradshaw said to the watchman, “Johnson,
how are you? I see you are a good officer.”
“Ay, lawyer, is that you,” replied Johnson, in a
tone of assumed frankness, though it wanted the
real click. “I expect I've got a case for you,—
this fellow's been going the nag again. I suppose
you'll be for clearing him; though I hope you'll”
and he spoke angrily, “not think it necessary to
abuse me to do it, as you did before.”
“Why, Johnson,” replied Bradshaw, “you must
not blame me, my good fellow. I did what I could
for my client; and I puffed you up in another case
—a sin for which I have yet to account; and let
me tell you, a much greater one than the other;—
Fritz, how goes it? I see you're in durance vile.”
“Vile enough, sir,” replied the boy; “but I
didn't expect to see you down our way.”
Bradshaw explained why he was there; and as
the watchmen led Fritz towards the watch-house,
which was precisely in his route, though many
squares off, he walked on with them. Johnson
was evidently displeased, and Fritz as evidently
pleased, that Bradshaw had joined them. The
accusation of theft, which Johnson had made
against the boy, had dashed him; for he inquired,
in an anxious tone, of Bradshaw, if he would be
his lawyer. Bradshaw replied that he would, and
was on the eve of lecturing him on his course of
life and its inevitable consequences, thinking it a
fit occasion to produce an impression upon him,
when he recollected that it would be of no use in
the presence of the watchman. They walked
along in silence for some time; Bradshaw had fallen
behind, and the watchman strode on before, holding
the boy by the collar, and almost dragging him
along. After many steps in silence, Bradshaw heard
the watchman say, as if unconscious of their presence,
and speaking to himself, “I had a d—l of a
rough scrape along here before to-night.”
“What did you remark, Johnson?” asked Bradshaw.
“Nothing,” replied the watchmen; “only there
and alleys; and I reckon, if this fellow, (shaking
Fritz) goes the voyage, there will be some less.”
Here the watchman and his charge crossed a
narrow lane, which intersected the street. Bradshaw
had fallen so far behind, that he did not
reach the crossing until they had passed it. He
heard footfalls, as he thought, approaching in the
lane, and, as he was about crossing it, he saw a
person start from under a door-way, as if he had
stepped from concealment, and he heard a voice
say,
“Cor, hist!” or “Cornish!” he could not determine
which, “we must save him before he gits
to the watch-house.” A gust of wind caused the
lamp at the corner to waver, just as Bradshaw
stepped past it, and the form was lost in darkness.
He stopped for a moment to listen, and tried to
penetrate the shade, but in vain; he saw nor heard
no more, except the utterance of his own name
spoken, in a tone as if to inform another person
who he was.
Under all the circumstances,—Fritz being his
client, the watchman a malicious fellow, who was,
perhaps, transcending his duty, Bradshaw did not
feel himself bound to communicate to him what he
had heard; for if he did, it might not prevent the
attempt at a rescue, and the watchman would
spring his rattle, and raise an excitement, which
might militate against Fritz on his trial. It, also,
would greatly have added to the unkindness of
the boy's treatment. Johnson hated Fritz for some
pranks of old, which he had played him, and he
revenge. Bradshaw determined to turn down the
next cross lane, that he might not be a witness of
the affray, if one should arise. He reflected—
from the person at the corner naming him, that
he was known; and he thought it more than probable
his presence would have no effect in deterring
them from their designs. They knew him,
perhaps, to be Fritz's counsel, being his friends they
had most likely witnessed his trial, in which Bradshaw
drew Johnson's character in no flattering colours,
and they of course believed him to be well
disposed toward his client, and no favourer of Johnson.
By this time they had reached the cross
street; and Bradshaw remarked, “I go this way—
so good night to you.”
Fritz said, in a subdued voice, “Good night, sir;
but don't forget me.”
“You know I will not, Fritz,” said Bradshaw;
while Johnson remarked, “Well, Lawyer, if you
will go that way, good night to you.”
They parted, Bradshaw turning down the cross
lane. He pursued his way, thinking over the characters
of the individuals whom he had just left.
Fritz, he fancied, under different circumstances
might have been all that was noble, while, thought
he, it would require all the regenerating influence
of Christianity, of which my father is so fond of
speaking, to make any thing of Johnson, but a low,
selfish, cunning knave.
Bradshaw determined, if he met Fritz's friends,
whom he thought he knew, though not by name,
to advise them against attempting his rescue. The
with persons of the lowest order, and of the most
depraved habits. Bradshaw was in their very
head quarters. However, on he went, regardless
of what might be the consequence. The lane,
though long, was lighted but by two lamps, placed
at either end: there had been one in the middle,
but it had been so often broken and replaced, that
at last not even the post was left by those who like
not the tell-tale glare. As Bradshaw approached
the place where it had stood, three men passed
him; he could distinguish that one of them had on a
cloak, and that all had clubs, but he could discern
no more. One of them struck with his club
three times on the pavement as they passed, and
almost immediately afterwards, it was observed,
“He's not one of us; he's a ruffled shirt fellow:
let's bring him to.” Bradshaw felt that he was in
some danger, but he resolved, as the best means of
acting, to meet them as they turned to overtake
him.
“Who are you?” inquired one of them, very
roughly. “A friend, if you give me no cause to be
your enemy,” replied Bradshaw, in a calm, but
fearless tone.
“It's Mr. Bradshaw, who was Fritz's lawyer,”
whispered one of them to his companions,
which Bradshaw overheard.
“I tell you what it is, boys,” said Bradshaw; “I
don't know who you are, and if I suspect truly
what you are after, I don't want to know, for if
you attack Johnson, you will only get yourselves
against you—and you can't save Fritz.”
“Fritz! Fritz! in danger,” exclaimed all of them
at once, “we must save him, come what may.”
From this, Bradshaw thought he discovered that
they were not the persons whose conversation he
had overheard at the corner. He, therefore, told
them the circumstance, knowing that, if they
thought Fritz had friends at hand to save him from
the clutches of Johnson, they would not follow after
him. He remarked, also, “Boys, you had better
let it alone. I will do what I can for Fritz, and
you could not overtake them before they got to the
watch-house, or to that part of the city where Johnson
could get speedy help, if you should attack
him.”
“You are in great danger, in being here, sir,”
said one of them; “for there has been a great fuss
in the lane to-night, and the boys are up, with the
devil in them.”
“I am in the middle of the stream, boys; returning
is as bad as going on. What shall I do?”
They conversed with each other apart, about,
as Bradshaw thought, giving him the “word,” as
they called it. One was in favour of giving it,
while the others strenuously opposed it.
“But we must see him through,” said one of the
opposers, “for he helped Fritz out of two scrapes,
and, if he takes a lark's case in hand, he's true as
steel—as if he took a king's—and he can just about
fan that d—d states attorney out.”
They came up to Bradshaw, and the one with
the cloak, assuming to be spokesman, said, “We will
bounds, sir.”
“If you think that I am in danger, I will be
obliged to you, if you will,” said Bradshaw.
Attended by these guardians, Bradshaw proceeded
onward; the one with the cloak walking by his
side, and the others behind. They did not straggle
along in the reckless manner in which such characters
generally deport themselves; but, on the contrary,
they walked like persons who had purposes and
reflections of a decided, perhaps, sombre cast. Connecting
all this with the watchman's manner and
conversation, Bradshaw could not but think something
serious had occurred. They walked on in silence,
till they heard foot-falls a-head of them, when
one of the two behind stepped before Bradshaw,
and joined the persons advancing. Some conversation
took place between himself and them, and
he walked with them until they met Bradshaw;
when he took his place beside his comrade, and
the others passed on. The persons who passed
were three in number, and, as far as Bradshaw
could guess, in the almost total darkness that surrounded
them, one was Fritz.
After a moment or two, Bradshaw broke silence,
by asking, “What is the reason that the street is
so still? I have understood that there were fun and
frolic going on here at all hours.”
“Why,” said the one beside him, “there was a
ball here to-night, at Dean's, and one man, that
nobody knew, was dirked, and another clubbed
—they pretended to be first-rates—the watchmen
came down and there was a scatterment—I believe,
boys soon got to covey.”
Here a door opened, and a light streamed forth.
It occurred to Bradshaw, that his companion
with the cloak seemed anxious to avoid his observation;
for, as the light shone upon them, he stepped
back to those behind. The wind was blowing furiously:
in a moment, it died away, when a startling
shriek was heard in the direction of the house
from which the light had appeared.
“There was no fun in that holler,” said one of
the “boys.” He had scarcely spoken, when a
voice, seemingly that of a woman, was heard, apparently,
in mortal difficulty, exclaiming, “Oh, God,
are there none to help me! For mercy's sake, sir,
for mercy.”
“Boys!” exclaimed Bradshaw, buttoning his
coat, “I can't stand this, I must see what's the
matter.” As he spoke, he ran towards the house.
“Mr. Bradshaw, you had better not; something
will happen to you,” exclaimed they all at once—
but, unhearing or unheeding, Bradshaw rushed on:
he opened the street door of a mean frame house,
where he thought he heard the voice of distress,
and stopped to listen. In a moment, he heard
another cry, which seemed to be at his very ear.
He stepped hurriedly in, and fell, in consequence of
the floor being lower than the street. He started
to his feet, unhurt, and saw a light through a crack
of the door; as he advanced towards it, a voice said
in supplication, “Indeed, I'm not what you take
me for.”
“Not what you take her for!” exclaimed a female
Virgin Mary, instead of the trull of any body.” Another
cry for help, and Bradshaw burst open the door
and sprang into the room. On the floor, in one corner,
shrinking from a ruffian, as if she would have
pressed herself through the wall, was a beautiful
girl, in the most fashionable attire, with her hair
loose upon her shoulders, and her bonnet off of her
head, but confined to her person by the string
holding it to her neck; her dress was disordered,
her cloak on the floor, and her whole appearance
and manner, but too plainly told her fears. In
another corner of the room was a bed, on which
were lying, with their tawdry finery on, two women
whose characters a glance could read, and
who were, evidently, much intoxicated: by their
bed stood an old stained table, on which were a
light and a bottle of liquor. A fire burned on the
hearth, and was supplied with fuel from another
corner of the room, where a quantity of old barrel
staves, and shavings were scattered about. In the
opposite corner to that in which were the women,
was another bed. Standing over the girl, and
holding her by the wrist, was a ferocious-looking
ruffian, whom Bradshaw recognised in a moment,
as one who had been found guilty of stabbing a
man with intent to murder, and who had contrived
to escape from the officers, as they were taking
him to the jail late on the evening of his condemnation:
a reward of one hundred dollars had been
offered by the sheriff for his apprehension. He
had, just before Bradshaw entered, removed a wig
and pair of false whiskers from his head and face,
when Bradshaw stood before him. He started, and
involuntarily attempted to replace them—finding
that he was seen, he mashed them in his hand,
and exclaimed, facing Bradshaw,
“What do you want here?”
“I heard the cry for help, sir, as I was passing
by,” said Bradshaw, “and I came in to see what
was the matter.”
“Save me, for God's sake, sir, save me!” exclaimed
the girl, springing towards Bradshaw.
“I have been misled here; I know not these people.”
“Not know me, Jane Durham! look at me now,
and know me,” exclaimed the man.
She looked at him intently for a moment,
clasped her hands, and exclaimed—“My God!
Henry Adams. But, sir,” said she, wildly, turning
to Bradshaw, “I did not know him until this
moment—and if I do, he has no claims upon me.
I am nothing to him. O, sir, if you love your sister—if
you love your mother—protect me.”
“Do not be alarmed—certainly I will,” said
Bradshaw.
“Certainly you will!—will you?” exclaimed
Adams. “What claims have you to her, sir? Is
she your w—?”
“She is not,” said Bradshaw; “nor shall she
be yours, without her consent.”
“Go, you ruffle-shirted rascal! Begone!—
leave that thing where you found her, or I'll
brain you.”
The third word had scarcely passed the man's
some of the bricks were loose, seized one, and
hurled it at him. It missed him, just grazing his
head, and made a great hole in the plaster of the
wall where it struck. When Bradshaw moved to
the hearth, Adams thought that he was leaving
Jane Durham (the girl) through fear of him, and
he advanced, and again seized her. She shrieked
fearfully. Bradshaw caught up the part of a hooppole,
three feet in length, and thick, from the rubbish
in the corner, and Adams had just time to
dodge his head, when the stick descended with
such force upon his shoulder as to fell him to the
ground.
“Murder! murder!” exclaimed Adams. “Moll,
call the larks. Don't murder me—don't murder
me.”
Here one of the women staggered to a door in
the side of the wall, and the other leaped from
the bed, and, with a demoniac countenance and
the most horrible imprecations, advanced upon
Jane Durham. Bradshaw seized the woman by
the shoulder, and, with a violent shove, pushed
her into the heap of rubbish;—at that very
moment, Adams, who had recovered his feet,
sprang and caught him by the throat. “You
shall die the death!” said Adams, as he pressed
him to the floor. Bradshaw's presence of mind,
on the instant, saved him. He seized Adams as
he fell under him, and, as if there were a posse
of watchmen at the door, called out, “Come on,
Johnson; we have the prize!” The ruffian let go
his grasp in a moment. Bradshaw, who wanted
an instant, when Adams broke away, and, with
the speed of thought, disappeared through the
door, up the stairway, where one of the women
had gone. Bradshaw caught up the girl's cloak;
threw it around her, and hurried her into the
street. They had scarcely proceeded ten steps,
when Adams, discovering the artifice which had
been practised by Bradshaw, mustered his associates,
who were rioting up stairs, and rushed out
in hot pursuit, determined on revenge. As soon
as Bradshaw heard them burst open the door, he
drew the girl into the skeleton of an old frame
building, whose windows, doors, and floors were
gone; and they hid from observation in the angle
formed by the chimney. They had scarcely
placed themselves there, when the ruffians reached
the house.
“Run on a-head, Joe,” said Adams; “Pete and
Blackey have gone the other way. May be,”
continued he, to his companion, “they've hid in
some of these old buildings. I'll kill 'em, by
hell, if I come across 'em.”
Saying this, Adams entered the door. “Come
on,” said he, to his companion.
“No, I won't,” said the other, “without a
light. If he's such a desperate chap as you say,
he'll blow a man's brains out, or dirk him, in the
dark.”
Adams paused a moment; and then seeing part
of the white dress of the girl, spread, as it were,
against the wall, as she crouched into the corner,
he entered, with uplifted club, and, with all his
Just as Adams struck, Bradshaw, whose dark
dress prevented him from being seen, but who
could see the faint outline of his adversary's person
between him and the door, grasped the hooppole,
which he still retained after the encounter
in the house, and dealt Adams such a fearful blow
over the head, that the ruffian fell senseless to the
ground, like a lump of lead, without uttering a
groan. Adams's companion, at the door, ran off,
without saying a word. Bradshaw put his hand
down, and felt the temples of Adams; finding that
he was perfectly senseless, he caught the hat from
his head, felt by his side for the club, and whispered
the girl in a quick, low voice—“Take off
your bonnet, and put on this hat. Courage!—my
pretty girl, courage!—our lives depend on it!—
There, wrap your cloak round you. Don't let the
wind blow your cloak open, and show your white
dress. Here, take this club in your hand—carry
it under your arm, as a watchman carries his pontoon.
If we meet them, don't you say one word;
but, if we get into a row, while I engage them, do
you escape.”
“O! don't leave me! don't leave me!” said the
girl.
By this time they had stepped over Adams, and
entered the street. The wind still blew in wild
gusts, while, occasionally, it was still as a summer's
eve. Fortunately for Bradshaw and his charge, it
was darker than it had been; though the drifting
clouds occasionally permitted the star-light to appear.
Away before them, in the distance, they
of the lane.
“Don't put your arms through the arm-hole of
your cloak—they will discover you by your white
sleeves. Step as firmly as you can,” continued
Bradshaw, in a whisper, as they walked on. “Give
me that hat, and take mine: that covers your eyes,
and you can't see where you tread. No! no! give
me mine again: the rim is so narrow 'twill show
your curls, if a light should flash on us. No, no, I
must not let you take my arm; if they should meet
us, they will take us for dandies at once, and attack
us.”
They rapidly approached the lamp at the end
of the lane. As they advanced, though Bradshaw
could not hear steps, yet he knew there was some
one approaching, for, every now and then, something
would obstruct the gleam of the light. All
was darkness and silence; not a light could be seen
from any of the houses, nor a voice heard. Bradshaw
was satisfied that, if they got into any difficulty,
he must rely upon his personal strength, and
what stratagem he might practise; and he felt now
his perilous situation more than he had before.
The steps of persons advancing were now distinctly
heard.
“Step firmly, my brave girl—step firmly,” said
Bradshaw, in a quick whisper; and, when he got
within ear-shot of the approaching persons, he said,
in an angry, decided tone, that made the poor girl
at his elbow start, and grasp his arm—“Here come
two other watchmen;—we must turn back with
them, Johnson, and join the watchman above, and
offered for them.” As soon as they heard
this, away they ran, cutting across the lane. One
was the fellow who ran away from the door when
Bradshaw knocked down Adams, and the other
was the person whom Adams had sent on to overtake
Bradshaw. Bradshaw and his charge passed
on to the lamp in safety. He could not but smile,
as the light struck the beautiful features of the
girl, to behold the inappropriateness of the ruffian's
hat, with the delicate and chiselled outlines and
lady curls which it shaded; and then the club under
her arm, and the masculine step which she affected,
contrasted strangely with the extreme delicacy
of her form, and the fright and anguish upon
her countenance. Her face lighted up with a wild
gleam of joy, as they passed the light; but it was
succeeded by an expression, sad as the gloom of the
darkness that, in a moment more, encompassed
them. Bradshaw began to reflect, as he hurried
rapidly on, that, perhaps, he had killed Adams; and
that he had endangered his own life for a girl whose
character could hardly be good—for one, at least,
of whom he knew nothing—for whom he had acted
knight-errant, and was leading, he knew not
where. “Well,” thought he, “be this girl who she
may, if she is frail, she is beautiful; and if she does
sell her favours, she has, at least, the right to decide
who shall be purchaser. Besides, her great
distress was evident; and be that as it may, I would
have served the scoundrel right, who dared to use
such language to me, if I had killed him on the
spot.”
As these thoughts passed rapidly through his
mind, Bradshaw conducted his charge on, and they
entered the street to which the lane led, and which
was parallel to the one where Bradshaw met Johnson
and Fritz. The street on which they had entered
led to the heart of the city, and to what is
not always characteristic of the hearts of things or
men, its most respectable part.
Bradshaw had just cheered the girl, and told
her they were out of danger; when, immediately
before them, as the stars twinkled forth, and the
gusts of wind ceased for a moment, they saw five
or six men standing in a strange silence.
“What shall be done?” said one of them, whose
voice Bradshaw thought was Johnson's, the watchman's;
“these fellows have murdered the man!
shall we leave him till morning?”
“Leave him till morning—no, that's against the
regulations; there is no place where we can put
him, and he must be taken to the watch-house.
Johnson, step up to the next light—there's some
boxes there—you can put one against the wall,
and get the light out—shade it with your hand,
and bring it here, and let us see who he is.”
A strange thrill ran through every nerve in
Bradshaw's body.
“It's no use,” said Johnson, “to get the light. I
shall break my neck, may be, in getting on the
box.”
“Johnson, I don't know what's got in to you to-night,”
said the other man. “Here, some of you
hold his head up till I run for the light.”
The man accordingly went. “Let us cross over
to the other side,” said the girl, “and hurry on.”
“No, no,” said Bradshaw, “I want to see who
the man is.” Bradshaw stepped up to the men,
just as the one who had gone for the light returned
with it. He recognised Johnson, and thought he
had not his usual officiousness. As the light shone
upon the faces of the by-standers, Johnson turned
and discovered Bradshaw.
“Ah! Mr. Bradshaw,” said he, “this is a late
hour, I did not think you were such a bold rover.
There's danger in these places.”
“I've found it so,” said Bradshaw, anxiously
pressing by Johnson to look upon the body. It
was that of a middle-aged man, as far as Bradshaw
could see by the light, dressed in a new
suit; and he looked as if he were not a townsman.
The features were rough and pallid; and across
the right eyebrow there was a terrible gash. The
hair was matted with blood—the eye glazed—the
muscles of the whole face relaxed—the mouth half
open, and the lip livid.
“He's as cold as a wagon-tire.” said the watchman
who held the light. “Who knows him?”
“Feel his pulse,” said Bradshaw; and, as he
spoke, he stooped and felt it himself. “He's not
dead; his pulse beats faintly—very. You'd better
break up one of these boxes, form a litter, and carry
him to the watch-house.”
The watchman with the light, held it up to the
features of Bradshaw, to see who it was that had
the presumption to speak so authoritatively to the
guardians of the night; but, on discovering Bradshaw,
he said—“Yes, Lawyer, that'll be the best
way.”
“Jones,” said Bradshaw, addressing him, “step
here, one moment: let me say a word to you.”
As Jones and Bradshaw walked apart, Johnson
approached close to them, seemingly with the most
intense anxiety to hear what Bradshaw was communicating.
Bradshaw told Jones that Adams was
up the alley, and advised him to go up and take
him, and get the reward.
“But, can't you go with us to show us the
place,” asked Jones.
“I might, but for this person whom I defended
against him. How far must I escort you, my fair
ally?”
“Oh! Mr. Bradshaw, don't leave me,” said she.
“Cannot one of these watchmen see you home,
Miss?” asked Jones.
“Yes, yes, sir, any thing, if Mr. Bradshaw is engaged.”
“I'll see you home myself, my pretty ally,” said
Bradshaw, “come, take my arm and we will go.
Perhaps I should not wish him farther harm, as he
is, doubtless, hurt already; but he stabbed a man
under very aggravated circumstances, and his conduct
to you shows that he deserves punishment—
that he should not be permitted to go at large.”
“I don't want him hurt,” said the girl,” but, I
wish he was away—I don't like to be in the city
where he is. My God! there seems to be a fatality
that dogs me like a blood hound. Those women,
those women on the bed! shall I ever be
what they are? Mr. Bradshaw, how shall I express
my gratitude, and what is the gratitude of
one like me?”
“Don't think of that, my fair ally. I declare,
you make a right good watchman. Which way
shall we turn?”
“This way, if you please, sir; I live in the two
story brick, in the lane, just above Mr. Glassman's.”
“Ah, just above Mr. Glassman's! Do you know
Mr. Glassman?”
“Yes, sir,” said she, faintly.
“He left town to-day, I believe?”
“Yes, sir, I believe he did.”
Bradshaw was anxious to ask her concerning
the ruffian Adams, and how she came in the house;
and at the mention of Glassman's name, he felt a
much greater curiosity, but he refrained from asking
any questions; as it was evident to him she
did not wish to speak of herself, and if questioned, in
the overflow of her feelings, she might tell something
which she afterwards would regret having
revealed—and farther, when Glassman was named,
it occurred to him, she might be so situated with
regard to that gentleman, that delicacy towards
him required he should not seek her confidence.
They soon passed the residence of Glassman, and
arrived at hers; she passed quickly up the steps—
three in number—supporting herself by the railing.
“Walk in, sir,” said she to Bradshaw.
“Thank you, my fair ally, but 'tis late.”
“Do walk in one moment, sir,” said she, “till I
see that all is safe.”
They found the door unlocked, and they walked
in together—she threw the room door open; the
a sofa, a side-table,—full of books,—and a
piano: many beautiful pictures adorned the wall.
On the table burned a candle that glimmered in
the socket. Lying on the hearth-rug, before the
fire, asleep, was a black servant girl.
“Phœbe,” exclaimed Jane Durham, pushing her
with her foot, “Phœbe, get up, get up.”
The servant started, and seeing her mistress
with Adams' hat upon her head, she exclaimed,
“thieves!” lustily, taking her for a robber.
“Don't you know me?” said her mistress, throwing
the hat on the floor.
“Bless me, Miss Jane! Miss Jane Durham!” said
the servant, clasping her hands together—“I've
been looking every where for you. I wondered,
and wondered. Oh! I've been so frightened.” Here
she rubbed her eyes, and saw Bradshaw, she started,
looked at her mistress for a moment, and said
no more.
“Shut the door, Phœbe,” said her mistress, “and
hand Mr. Bradshaw some refreshments, from the
side-board in the next room. Will you take wine,
sir, or something stronger?”
Bradshaw, who felt chilled and somewhat exhausted,
smiled, and said, he would take something
stronger—the direction was, accordingly,
given to the servant
Bradshaw could now more closely and calmly
observe Miss Durham; she could not be twenty.
She was very beautiful, her features regular and
delicate, her eye dark and dazzling, and the expression
of her countenance shifting and variable.
could not but observe the beauty of her
hand, and the paleness of her brow, as she sat on
the sofa, and without looking in to the glass arranged
her hair. Her manner was forced—for, while adjusting
her curls, and conversing with Bradshaw,
she would gaze for a moment, thoughtfully—anxiously—and
then, by an effort, appear self-possessed
and cheerful.
After partaking of some refreshment, Bradshaw
rose to depart.
“May I hope to see you again, sir?” said Miss
Durham, with rather a confused air.
“Certainly, I anticipate that pleasure, my brave
and beautiful ally,” said Bradshaw, shaking hands
with her, as he left the room. She followed him
to the front door, and said—
“Mr. Bradshaw, think of me as you may,—be
what I may, my gratitude shall not be less pure or
less enduring.”
“Don't speak of that, don't speak of that. Good
night to you;” and he pressed her hand once more,
and departed.
“Well,” thought Bradshaw, as his solitary step
echoed along the pavement, “this is an adventure.
How that villain pressed my throat! With what
lightning-like rapidity one thinks, when in danger!
There is no doubt of it, excitement goes a great
way in developing mind. I thought of my whole
life, in an instant, when that villain sprang upon
me. Great revolutions call forth intellect. Why?
Not only because every thing is turned topsy turvy
then, but because, surrounded by peril, man's ingenuity
escape the dangers that continually threaten life and
limb,—sagacity, like a sentinel on a watch-tower,
encompassed by the enemy, must not only be wakeful,
but ever watchful. A bonnie lassie, and Glassman!
How he reminds me of Sir Roger de Coverley
—honest, where women are not concerned. Well,
this vice is a pleasant thing, but the responsibility
—the responsibility.”
| CHAPTER XI. Clinton Bradshaw, or, The adventures of a
lawyer | |