University of Virginia Library

19. Chapter XIX.
Kolephat and Ferret.

AT the same hour of the Sabbath morning in which
the little group of worshippers knelt in Margery's
room, Peleg Ferret, rent-collector of Kolephat College;
sat in the library of his employer, engaged in close conversation
with the old Hebrew. He had been sent for, hastily,
by Mordecai Kolephat, and, like a faithful agent, obeyed
with alacrity the summons. As it was Sunday, Mr. Ferret
was attired with great regard to fashion; wearing a blue
coat, with rounded skirts and gilt buttons, a yellow-striped
waistcoat, and cravat of crimson, spotted with
delicate drops of white. His shirt-collar was turned over,
and his hair stiff and shining with bears'-grease. He sat,
with legs crossed, near Mr. Kolephat's desk, and opposite
a large mirror, in which he glanced, at intervals, with
apparent self-satisfaction at his own reflected image.

The owner of Kolephat College was wrapped in a
dressing-gown somewhat the worse for wear, and from
the expression of his countenance, as he leaned back in an
easy-chair, regarding his agent, it might be conjectured

that he was in a state of much mental agitation; for his
brow was deeply corrugated, and a nervous trembling
could be observed in his eyelids and nether lip, as if
unquiet thoughts were passing through his mind.

“Ferret,” said the Jew, abruptly, “what did you know
about the rag-picker who called herself `Old Pris?”'

“A dirty old critter—never paid her rent, when she
could beg off, or git clear to another house,” answered the
agent, sententiously.

“You knew her a great many years, Ferret?”

“More'n a dozen, I should say! Allers the same filthy
old critter—some folks thought she had money saved, but
I never could discover any. Drank a good deal, and
policied.”

“She bought tickets in the lottery, you mean, Ferret.”

“Yes, policied—bought policies; but never heerd she
made any `hits,”' answered the agent.

“Well, well,” said the Jew, impatiently. “You have
known her twelve years, you say—did you ever know her
to have a family—any children, about her?”

“She!—children?” echoed the agent. “Why, they'd
all run away from her, skeered to death!”

Kolephat's countenance fell. “Did she have intercourse
with her neighbors—the rag-pickers, or bone-collectors,
or the organ-grinders, Ferret?”

“Well, slightly—yes!” said the man, hesitatingly.
“'Pears to me, there was an old furrin critter—French
woman, or suthin' o' the sort—used to harbor Old Pris—
ye-es! guess it was an Italian, 'cause she had a parcel o'
organ-grinders an' tambourine-g'rls allers 'round.”

“And is this Italian you speak of now living?”

“Reckon so—shouldn't wonder if she lived where Old
Pris did—thereabouts—you know I haint had charge o'
that property, Mr. Kolephat.”

Ferret uttered the last words in a tone that might
signify a gentle sort of complaint that his principal had
not yet given him the agency of the crowded tenement
buildings wherein Old Pris had breathed her last.

“I think it is hardly six months since that property fell
into my possession, Ferret,” replied Kolephat, as if he
understood the collector's drift.

“Pays?” conjectured Ferret, interrogatively. “Rag-pickers
ain't the wust sort o' tenants, nohow, Mr. Kolephat!”

“Ferret!” suddenly spoke the Hebrew, and then abruptly
paused, apparently relapsing into reflection; whereupon
Ferret began industriously to twirl his hat upon one
knee, at the same time throwing his head to one side, and
lifting his right eyebrow, as if to say, “Well—here I am
waiting, old fellow—what have you got to say?”

“Ferret,” at length the Jew resumed, “I have something
to tell you, and something for you to do, which, I
am convinced, your shrewdness and perseverance will not
fail to accomplish, and for which you shall be well
rewarded.”

Kolephat paused a second time, and Ferret pricked up
his ears like a hound, much interested by the concluding
words of his employer's remark.

“Ten years ago, I was richer than I am now, Ferret,
in possessing a priceless jewel. That jewel was stolen

from me by the rag-picker, Old Pris; and has never been
restored to me. I wish you to find it.”

The agent opened his eyes widely, staring at the old
man, whom he began to suspect was wandering in his
mind, in spite of the calm tone in which he spoke.

“What, me!—me find it?” ejaculated the rent-collector.
“Ten years is a long time—and she's sold it, or pawned
it, no doubt. How much was it wu'th, Mr. Kolephat?”

“Stop, Ferret! It was not a jewel, such as this paltry
stone!” cried the Jew, extending his long, pale hand, on
one of the fingers of which glittered a first-water diamond.
“It was a human being—a soul, Ferret, in the body of an
infant child! It is this I lost, Ferret, this which I would
have you seek for me, and I will well reward you, if you
succeed, as if it were the chief jewel of a king's crown
that you restored to me.”

The old man had risen, as he was speaking, and now
stood before Ferret, with one arm extended, while the
gown which he wore, depended like drapery around him,
giving to his attitude a certain dignity that the agent had
never noticed before. He was somewhat startled, indeed,
at the manner of his principal, and not yet clear in his
mind about the sanity of that person—nevertheless, he
saw that it was necessary for him to speak, and therefore
ventured to utter the monosyllable—“child?”

“Ay, Ferret,” said Mordecai Kolephat. “Tell me!
how long have you acted as my agent?”

“Seven years, next May,” replied the collector.

“Three years before that, Ferret, an infant, the last of
my children, was kidnapped from her nurse, in the streets

of this city. All search, all offer of reward, failed to
discover her fate, until yesterday I learned that she is
living, somewhere, in this great town, and that she is
connected in some manner with organ-grinders! These
are all the clues that I could obtain from the dying
woman, who confessed to the kidnapping; and I have
sent for you, Ferret, to disclose to you these facts, and to
rely upon your shrewdness to follow up such traces as you
may discover, in order to ascertain for me the whereabouts
of my lost child. I will reward you well, if you succeed;
now, can I depend upon you?”

The agent's eyes glistened at the suggestion of personal
profit, and he eagerly expressed his readiness to undertake
the task of searching for the lost child. But the Jew
checked him.

“Listen, Ferret,” said the old man. “I have mourned
for ten long years over the unknown fate of my daughter,
and gladly would I receive her to my house and heart, if
she be yet unsullied by the associations in which she has
probably been reared. But, if she be like the vile children
of the street, Ferret,” —

“Ah—ye es!” hesitated the agent, perceiving that his
principal was strongly affected by some sudden thought.

“Have I not heard—is it not true, Ferret,” demanded
the Hebrew, in a voice quivering with emotion—“that—
that children of tender years—of scarce ten years, I mean
—are adepts in vice and wicked craft?”

“Orful!” was Peleg's epigrammatic response. “Reg'lar
young catamarans!”

“That profanity and lewdness are customary to them—

that precocious knowledge renders them old in defilement
ere they are yet past the days of childhood! Is this true,
Ferret? Answer me! Is it not true of the young girls,
as of the boys?”

“The g'rls is wuss, if anything—that's a fact, Mr.
Kolephat. They picks up all sorts o' wickedness, so the
p'lice says. House o' Refuge, and 'Sylum's the place for
sich young 'uns.”

“It is all true, then, Ferret?”

“Sure thing!” replied Peleg.

“Oh! Father Abraham! this is the last blow!” murmured
the Hebrew, covering his face with his hands, and
sinking back into his chair. “My child! the child of mine
age! for this fate thou hast been reserved—to be a child
of the street!” He bent his head upon his knees, and
rocked to and fro, violently agitated. Peleg Ferret
looked on, only half able to comprehend his employer's
emotions.

During forty years, Mordecai Kolephat had dwelt in
the great city, toiling, day by day, to amass hoards of
wealth. Daily, during all that period, in his walks
through the populous thoroughfares to the mart of business—in
his saunterings at early morn, or upon holidays,
through streets containing his increasing property—the
broker had encountered, in ones and twos, and in dozens
and scores, the multitudes of neglected creatures whom
he had known, or cared to know, only as “children of the
street.” They had jostled him at the curb-stones, they
had stretched out their fingers to him as he crossed the
gutters, they had begged of him at the open gate; he had

seen them, in squalor and wretchedness, congregated
around tenant-houses, beheld them in the hands of policemen,
who were bearing them to trial or prison for petty
thefts, read of them as dying very fast, in seasons of distemper,
and heard reports about their numbers and condition,
submitted before charitable societies or public
committees. During all the forty years, Mordecai Kolephat
had looked upon those forlorn and outcast street
children as pests to society, in a general way, and he had,
therefore, paid his taxes as a citizen should, with reference
to the support of those great utilitarian features of a city
—the prisons and houses of correction, built for the
relief of society, in taking safe charge of its “dangerous
classes.”

But here, suddenly, and with fearful tangibility, a “child
of the street” was laid, foundling-like, at the threshold
of the citizen's door, and upon its breast was written:
“Mordecai Kolephat is the father!” Here, in its rags,
its filthiness, its viciousness, a miserable street-child lifted
up its little hands, at the crossing, and said, with terrible
earnestness: “Blood of my blood—flesh of my flesh!—
take me from the gutter where I lie, and cover my nakedness
with the mantle of your fatherly love!” No wonder,
indeed, that the millionaire groaned in the depth of his
heart, and trembled, as if smit with ague, while he murmured
unto himself—

“A child of the street!—mine own little one—a child
of the street!”

Peleg Ferret watched his employer, until the latter's
agitation had somewhat subsided, and he regained sufficient

calmness to renew the conversation. But when the
agent looked again upon Kolephat's features, he could
not but notice that a serious alteration had taken place in
them. The eyes, usually so glittering and scrutinizing,
appeared now vacant and glassy; the severe lips were
relaxed; and there seemed to be new wrinkles gathering
upon the forehead. Peleg Ferret said to himself, as he
left the library, and walked to the house-door, twirling
his hat—

“The old man's breaking down!—that's so!”

For some moments after the rent-collector had departed,
Mordecai remained seated in his arm-chair, one elbow
resting on the desk near by, and supporting his head,
which drooped heavily downward. A dismal retrospect
of thought was passing through the rich man's mind:
visions of youth-times, bright and fleeting, succeeded by
shadowy confusion, and chased into oblivion by phantom-scenes
of dark aspect and threatening import. The struggle
for wealth, its attainment, and the blight which turned
its fruit to ashes, its honey-stores to gall-like bitterness—
all these, the product of a world-serving existence, a self-cheating
pursuit of unreal good, were now passing over
the cloudy disc of his memory, even as shapes of fearful
things were invoked of old, to flit across the sight of one
who sought unhallowed revelations. In this state of
dreamy suffering, the Hebrew continued for some time
after Peleg Ferret had left him; but at length, appearing
to recover himself with a strong effort, he passed his
hands hurriedly over his forehead, sighed deeply, and, rising
to his feet, moved feebly from the library, the door of

which he closed behind him. As he disappeared, another
door, communicating with one of the parlors of the house,
was slowly opened, and Rebecca, the Heiress, stepped
cautiously into the room. Her face was pale as marble,
her eyes wandering in their expression. She had overheard
the conversation. She had learned that there
was a daughter of Mordecai Kolephat to come between
herself and fortune—perchance between herself and—
Richmond.