 | XXII.
TWO SKELETONS IN ONE HOUSE. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
22. XXII.
TWO SKELETONS IN ONE HOUSE.
An old gentleman, in a loose suit of drab, with a white cravat,
a white whisker, and a thin fleece of white hair frizzled all over
his head, took off his hat (a white one) to the clerk of a second-class
hotel, in Montreal.
“I wish to see a — a Miss — a Miss —” The white gentleman
hesitated, and fumbled in his breast-pocket. “I 've forgotten
the name, and left the letter at home. I 'll glance at your books,
if you please.”
“Presently,” said the clerk; “as soon as this gentleman is done
with them.”
The gentleman referred to was a gay young fellow, with a moustache;
precisely such a moustache, by the way, as Phœbe Jackwood
so much admired, and pined to behold once more, on Huntersford
Creek. The wearer looked up, with a questioning air, at
the clerk.
“Mr. Sperkley's party arrived here the twelfth?”
“Ay,” said the clerk, “night before last.”
“Is Mr. Sperkley in?”
“Mr. Sperkley is out, this morning?”
“Thank you; I will call again,” — and the moustache retired.
“Sperkley, — Sperkley,” repeated the white gentleman, referring
to the register. “That is the name I was to inquire for, I
think. `Mr. Sperkley, lady, and friend,' — and it 's the friend I
desire to see. Is she in?”
“A young lady; ay,— I think so. Shall I send up your name?”
The white gentleman's card being despatched to Mrs. Sperkley's
apartment, answer was promptly returned that the ladies would
had he taken his seat, when a bustling, chubby little woman entered,
bright and smiling as the sun, and breathless with running
down stairs. She was dressed in stiff, rustling silks, and wore
heavy jewels in her ears and on her fingers; gold-bowed spectacles
on her nose, a massive chain of gold about her neck, and a watch
and pencil in her belt.
“How do you do?” she cried, with a hearty demonstration of
friendship. “Have you seen my husband?”
“Your husband? — Is this Mrs. Sperkley?”
“Yes, this is Mrs. Sperkley,” — with an air which seemed to
say, don't you think it 's a pretty nice Mrs. Sperkley, after all? —
“And you are Mr. Holyland?”
“Longman was the name on my card.”
“Longman? Dear me! how could I make that mistake, and
read it Holyland?”
“I wish to see a young lady who is, I think, in your company.”
“O, the person we got acquainted with aboard the boat! She
has been expecting some one to call. I 'll run and speak to her.”
She rushed, rustling, from the parlor. The white gentleman
looked dissatisfied, and walked the room as if he was more than
half inclined to walk out of it, and out of the hotel, and out of the
society of Mr. Sperkley, lady, and friend, forever. His expression
brightened, however, when the door again opened.
“Miss Woods —” Charlotte smiled assent, and he gave her
his hand. “I received your note accompanying Mrs. Dunbury's
letter last night, but at too late an hour —”
“Do not apologize,” said Charlotte, embarrassed. “You are
but too kind to come to me at all. On Mrs. Dunbury's recommendation,
I ventured to apply to you, — I am here, a stranger,
— and what I desire is, to find some situation —”
“Leave that to the future,” replied the white gentleman.
“How are you situated here at the hotel?”
“Comfortably as could be expected, I suppose.”
“And your friends?”
“Friends? — I have none.”
“I mean, the Sperkley family.”
“O!” said Charlotte, with a smile, “I may, perhaps, call
them friends, for they have been kind, and helped me through
difficulties in travelling that I could hardly have surmounted
alone. But they are mere chance acquaintances.”
“So much the better! Now, I 'll tell you what; without any
ceremony, and with as little delay as possible, you shall leave
this house, and go home with me. So much accomplished, we 'll
see what else can be done. One thing at a time, is my motto.”
It had been so far from Charlotte's expectation or design to
intrude upon anybody's hospitality, that the offer appeared all the
richer and more welcome to her homelessness. With a full heart
she accepted it. This settled, the white gentleman, having a small
business matter to attend to in the same street, took leave, but
returned promptly, in half an hour, as he had promised. Charlotte
was ready for a departure, and had nothing to do but exchange
“good-bys” with Mrs. Sperkley.
“Our acquaintance has been very pleasant,” said the duchess,
making an affecting demonstration with her handkerchief. “I am
very sorry to lose you so soon; and, re'ly, I shall have a good
cry over it, when you are gone!”
The little woman exhibited something of the genuine ore of
human feeling, as well as a good deal of the dross; and Charlotte,
in whom the faintest show of kindly sympathy on the part
of others never failed to awaken grateful emotions, returned her
boisterous kiss with a quiet touch of her pure lips, accompanied
with an earnest inward prayer for her happiness. At parting,
the duchess wished her to accept a gold ring, which she drew
from her finger, as a memento; but Charlotte with gentle dignity
declined it, and it went back to its place on the chubby red hand.
A few minutes' ride brought Charlotte and her companion to a
plain, sober little house, pleasantly located, in the upper part of
of the town. This proved the residence of the white gentleman;
and here, disembarking with her baggage, she was welcomed to
her new home by one of the sunniest faces she had ever met.
“My daughter, Mrs. Lawrence Longman,” said the white gentleman.
She was not beautiful; she was pale and faded: but there was
to her at once.
“I was sure father would bring you home with him,” said Mrs.
Lawrence. “Your room is all ready for you.”
It was a cosey little chamber, the windows of which looked out
upon a garden and a country road. On entering it, Charlotte was
thrilled with happiness and surprise. She glanced around her;
she gazed from the window; she turned her suffused eyes upon the
smiling, tender face of the gentle woman who had given her so
rich a welcome. She attempted to speak; she put out her hand,
but a flood of tears overtook her.
“You see what a foolish creature I am!” said she, with a
smile of living love brightening through her tears. “But I cannot
help it! such good things happening to me, when I deserve
them so little!”
The gentle woman whispered a word of cheer, and glided from
the room. It was an hour of deep and holy emotion to Charlotte.
Her gratitude to God, and to the friends he had given her, arose
to rapture; feeling, as she did, that her feet were now led into
sweet pastures for a season, and that here she might lie down and
rest by the cool waters.
When next she met Mrs. Longman, her appearance had undergone
a surprising change. She was attired with a simplicity
amounting almost to homeliness; but the charm of her figure, and
the spirit of beauty and grace that breathed about her, amply
compensated for the lack of external adornments. She had
dressed her hair carefully, however; and to that, perhaps, she
owed no small part of her personal attractions. In the luxuriant
arrangement of its rich, soft masses, she had displayed all the
natural exultation and exuberance of her spirits. No jewel on
her head or about her person, save a simple golden cross upon her
neck. It was a trifle Hector had given her, — the only gift of
his she had consented to retain, — and this was the first occasion
on which she had worn it, since they parted. Her countenance
was tranquil and happy, yet there was a softening sadness
in it still, which rendered it all the more winning. Her eyes were
quiet admiration.
“And how did you leave Mrs. Dunbury?” that lady asked.
“I am sorry Hector has gone again. He appears to have a roving
disposition. Is his mind as changeable as his habits? I am
not much acquainted with him; I never saw him but twice, and
that was years ago. He was then a handsome, high-spirited boy,
— adventurous, but very fond of his mother.”
Poor Charlotte managed to say, —
“He is your cousin?”
“A sort of second cousin, — and that only by marriage. Mr.
Longman is Mrs. Dunbury's uncle; and I am Mr. Longman's
daughter-in-law. I wish I knew the family better. Ah, Mrs.
Dunbury says such blessed things of you in her letters!”
“Her letters!” said Charlotte.
“You did not know, then, that we received one from her by
mail only a few hours before the one you brought arrived? Indeed,
how should you know? Perhaps it would have been as well
not to mention it; but it appears she could not express herself
sufficiently in the note she had sent by you; so she afterwards,
on her sick bed, took occasion to tell us more about you.”
“She is too kind; you must not believe half she says.”
“One half will be enough! But, come, I want my mother to
see you. She is aged, and a little capricious; she has grown quite
impatient about you.”
The mother — or rather the mother-in-law — was an emaciated
old lady, with an ear-trumpet, a snuff-box, and an extremely feeble,
small voice. She proved to be very deaf, and very peevish. She
made Charlotte sit up close to her chair, and, giving her the mouth-piece
of the trumpet, while she held the other extremity of the
tube to her ear, conversed with her from the depths of the pillows
in which her attenuated frame was almost hidden from view.
Charlotte had been nearly a week with her new friends, when,
one day, as she was keeping the old lady company, she was aroused
by an occurrence in the adjoining room. The door was unclosed;
and she heard Mrs. Longman exclaim,
“Edward, where did you come from?”
“From Paradise, by the back door,” replied a voice which
made Charlotte start, and strain her ear to catch the faintest
intonation. “Do you know what that means? It means quibble-quabble.
The world is all a fleeting show. Give me a glass of
water.”
“Sit down, Edward,” said the widow, kindly. “Will you take
some wine? You look weary.”
“I have been in the wilderness, tempted of the devil. I would
not care, if I had not torn my trousers. When this old hat was
new, — sing me that hymn; I think it is something melancholy,
tending to reflection. And I was young and gay, — we are older
now, Sal! And wiser; did you know it?”
“And wiser,” repeated Mrs. Longman.
“I like you, Sal!” said Edward, affectionately. “But there
is a deal of milk-and-water in your composition.”
“Drink the wine, Edward.”
“The milk of human kindness, and the water that delights
thirsty souls! That 's better than wine. Good Sal! you are
one in ten thousand. I would kiss you, but for my oath.” The
speaker's eye glittered, and his voice sank to a whisper. “I stood
on the shore, and saw the ship, rich-freighted with my happiness,
sail out of sight in the distance. The Princess of Sheba's ship, —
did I tell you?”
Edward seated himself in an attitude of deep thoughtfulness,
holding his dilapidated hat in one hand, and the glass in the other.
His long, flaxen beard streamed down and touched the wine, as he
bent forward, resting his elbow on his knee. The widow stood
by, sad and patient, waiting for him to drink.
“Prophecy is a fearful gift.” He raised his head, and shook
the wine-drops from his beard. “She shall reign; but one is to
be sacrificed. Broken ice and water.” He seemed to be gazing
at some picture, far away, and his finger waved softly in the air.
“The river that flows through Sheba; 't is perilous crossing!
Sal!” — starting with exultation, — “they 've shown me my
epitaph! 'T is to be written in fire, on a monument high as the
moon!”
The widow came softly, and closed the door.
“What is there?” cried the old lady, agitating her pillows.
“Tell me; no secrecy! Why is the door closed? Quick!”
And the feeble hand extended the mouth-piece, with an impatient
jesture. Charlotte replied, through the tube, that some person
was talking with Sarah.
“Who? Don't keep me in suspense! I shall die! O, dear!
why don't you speak?”
“I don't know who it is.”
“Don't know? You must know! You are deceiving me!
Sarah has no right —”
“She calls his name Edward.”
“Edward! is he here? Why don't he come at once to his
mamma? Why does she keep him?”
Charlotte, rising: “I will speak to her.”
“No!” whistled the feeble voice; “don't leave me! I shall
know nothing, if you do. They take advantage of my infirmities;
they impose upon me in all sorts of ways. Poor Edward! he has
been out of his mind. O, it 's now five years or more! A disappointment.
That was the beginning of it. So, he is home again,
is he? It runs in the family, — hereditary, you know. Sarah's
husband, Lawrence, — he was my oldest, — committed suicide. I
went to the garret, one day, and found him hanging from a rafter.
I never got over the shock. It all came of his meeting an old
flame. They 'd been engaged, I can't remember how many years.
He had married a new fancy; and when he saw the other again,
they had a desperate time. It almost killed Sarah. It 's in the
Longman family, not in mine. Mr. Longman had a nephew who
went the same way. A brother of Mrs. Dunbury, you know;
Hector's uncle. We used to think Hector would be like him, —
how is it?”
Charlotte shuddered; the picture the invalid once had drawn
of her son's possible fate recurring with startling vividness to
her mind. At this juncture, the widow entered the room; and
Charlotte gave a rapid account of her meeting with Edward, in
her northward journey.
“What are you talking?” cried the old lady. “Here!” —
word.”
“Presently,” said Sarah. “Edward is coming.”
Charlotte glided out, by another door, as he entered. At sight
of his haggard face and tattered clothes, the old lady began to
weep. He regarded her compassionately.
“The creature they used to call my mother! How long has
she been a weasel? If she is hungry, give her some mice. There
shall be no hunger in our kingdom, not even among the insignificant
races. And no tears either, except liar's tears!” — through
his teeth — “and they shall weep, weep, weep! Could a princess
tell a lie?”
“What does he say?” squeaked the old lady.
“When sent for, I shall appear; and so I told her majesty.
Ha!” — his countenance lighted up, as he glanced from the
western window, — “the sun sets red; there is danger brooding
for to-morrow!”
“Tell me, quick! Here!” — the old lady agitated her tube,
— “Edward, speak to your poor mamma!”
“I strode that sun once, and rode him through the heavens till
I bumped my head against the darkness! Sal!” — pointing
eagerly at the sky, — “do you mark the phantom horseman? He
gallops through a sea of fire!”
“Kiss me, my boy!” whimpered the old lady.
“Since Christmas, I have seen five, — brave riders all! One
swims the wave on a dolphin; that 's Cupid. One scours through
the bowels of the earth; that 's Avarice. And one careers on the
mountains; that 's Ambition. This one is nameless; but where
he rides men's wits are troubled.”
Already a domestic had been despatched for Mr. Longman.
He was not far from home; he returned speedily; and finding
his son in so unusual a state, he sent in haste for the family
physician.
Sleep, said the doctor, was chiefly necessary to restore Edward's
mind and body to their ordinary condition. But he could not be
prevailed upon to take any repose.
“I kicked Morpheus out of bed nine days ago; since then, we
napping?”
Neither reason nor entreaty could influence him. He walked
the room restless, talking wildly. At length Sarah suggested that
Charlotte should be invited to exert her power. The others consented;
and presently the “princess” appeared.
Was it his imagination only, or something in the magnetism of
her gentle spirit, that wrought so wonderful a change in his entire
demeanor? His countenance grew placid; his movements less
sharp and abrupt; his eye less wild and glaring; he became obedient
and tractable as a child. The same extreme sensitiveness to
personal influences, that caused him to start and shudder at the
approach of impure spheres, seemed also to have revealed to him
some innate excellence in Charlotte, to which he owed allegiance.
At her request, he consented first to take a warm bath, then to be
put to bed; and, having exacted her promise that she would have
him waked, without fail, before the ship sailed, he closed his eyes,
and soon sank into a profound, perspiring sleep.
“A visitor to see Miss Woods,” said the widow, in the forenoon
of the next day, showing her benign countenance in Charlotte's
chamber.
“Me!” echoed Charlotte, turning pale.
A rapid train of thought passed through her mind. Robert
Greenwich, returning to Huntersford, and learning the address of
Mrs. Dunbury's relatives in Canada, had hastened to trace her to
her last place of refuge. It was what she had feared. But Mrs.
Longman relieved her with the welcome intelligence that the visitor
was a lady.
“O, Mrs. Sperkley!” said Charlotte.
“What a time I have had finding you!” exclaimed the little
woman. “It 's curious, as I said to my husband, that I never
thought to ask your address. I 'd forgotten Mr. Longman's name,
too; and, just think! the very next day after you had gone, a
young gentleman, who says he has something of great importance
for you, came to inquire about you.”
“A young gentleman! Who?”
“I declare, I can't speak his name! Strange, for him and my
husband got very intimate, and played billiards together, and I
don't know what all.”
“Does he wear a moustache?”
“O, yes, a very handsome one!”
“Is n't he the same person who was detained from the steamboat
by the insane man?”
“O, yes!” cried the duchess; “and I thought I had seen his
face somewhere. But, then, I should think he 'd have spoken of
it. The way he found us was queer. He could n't see your
name on any of the hotel books; so, when he saw our arrival registered
as Mr. Sperkley, lady, and friend, he thought you must be
the friend.”
“And — where is he now?”
“O,” said the duchess, “him and my husband has gone down
to Quebec together, on some kind of a speculation. My husband
is a great speculator; he trades in watches, and di'monds, and
all sorts of things. Well, when I was left all alone, and did n't
know what else to do with myself, what should I find in my work-box
but the very card Mr. Longman sent up to us the day he came
to the hotel. And what did I do, but give it to the landlord, and
tell him to find out where such a man lived. That was easy; and
here I am. I knew you would be glad to see me; for I said to
myself, says I, though may be she won't care much about me,
she 'll be pleased to hear from the young gentleman. O, I remember
his name, now! It 's Sandwich, or Wolwich, or something
of the kind. It 's some sort of a wich, any way. You may
depend upon seeing him just as soon as he gets back with my husband.
You know what he has for you a great deal better than
I do.”
“Whatever it is,” said Charlotte, with sparkling eyes, “I do
not wish to receive it!”
“You don't say!” cried the astonished duchess.
“It was expressly to prevent his finding me that I requested
your husband not to register my arrival on the books of the hotel.
And I hope,” added Charlotte, almost weeping with vexation,
any such friends.”
“Why, I am sure, I can't understand that!”
“No, I do not expect you to. Do not try to; do not think of
it any more; do not think of me. I have felt very grateful for
your kindness to me; but I beg you will not give yourself any
more trouble on my account.”
In a little while the duchess took her leave. Charlotte did
not invite her to call again; and, as she saw her ride smilingly
away in the cab, she devoutly hoped that the light of that beaming
face might never shine upon her pathway again.
| XXII.
TWO SKELETONS IN ONE HOUSE. Neighbor Jackwood | |