University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.,
Which contains singular revelations, and tells
of the growth of an odd friendship.

I was musing over the contents of
the letter, when I heard Sharp speak.
I went to the pallet. The old man's
eyes were staring wildly, their whites
injected with blood, and his face deeply
flushed. The fever, as the doctor
had warned me, had evidently come
on. It was with some difficulty I
could get him to swallow the draught
sent for such an exigency.

He lay there, restlessly tossing about,
while I paced up and down the room,
striving to keep myself warm. There
was a grate, indeed, at the chimney-place,
but it was quite empty, and it
was too late in the night to order coals.
All I could do to defend myself against
the cold was to keep myself in motion.

The rustling noise of Sharp's movements
stopped. I turned to look at
him. He was sitting erect on the bed,
his eyes dilated and almost starting
from their sockets with terror.

“Ah!” he cried, in a tone of horror
that made my very flesh creep, “there
he is, cold and stiff; and he is my father!
Have I murdered him? Take
him away! Take him away!”

Was this, then, the terrible secret of
the old man's life, or was it the creation
of the fever?

“There! there!” he said, “they are
coming—for me! There is the gallows!
and the rope — how it dangles and
swings! The hangman—I see him!
and the crowd! how they yell and
howl! Oh, God! how they yell!”

This, then, I thought, was the cause
of those watchful glances which he cast
over his shoulder from time to time as
he walked—this was the spectre that
haunted him.

I hoisted the window again, obtained
some snow, and applied it to his
head.

“Heavens!” I said, as I was thus
engaged, “is this miserable old man a
parricide?”

He caught at the word.

“Parricide!” he exclaimed. “No,
my lord, and you, gentlemen of the
jury, I did not mean to murder him.
No; mean and cold and cruel as he was
to me, he was still my father. Murder!—me!
Why I would not harm a
worm. I meant to rob; yes, I meant
to help myself from his hoard;
for she—she was starving—dying of
want—and he spurned me from him—
he would not give me a farthing to
save her—her! my poor Margaret!
Yes! I was a spendthrift—a reckless
young man; but I was a husband! I
thought to make him sleep the sounder
that I might get the keys. He slept,
and he never awoke again. Ah! the
money came too late! too late! my
poor Margaret was dead!”

I still applied the snow, and he calmed
under it, but his fancies were busy
with him.

“Yes! I know—he died of disease
of the heart—they said his death was
sudden; but did not the laudanum hasten
it? He comes at night,” he murmured,
“at night, when all is still, and
sits and looks at me with his cold eyes
and pale face; he tells me that I have
his money; but I have no Margaret—
and then he goes to only come back
again—again—again. You are there
now, and your touch is cold as ice.”

“It is I, Ambrose Fecit,” I said.
“Don't you know me?”

“But I wonder what is in the packet,”
he continued. “Shall I open it?
I think not.”

I renewed the snow application to
his head.

“My poor Margaret!” he said. “She
is dead, and I have nothing to love
now but gold—gold—gold! I am rich
—they do not know how rich I am;
but I atone; yes, I atone. Men hate
and despise me for a miser. They'll
never know me better; but the grave
will cover me, and then the worms will
find it out—ha! ha! the worms will
find it out!”

It was a trying position for one of
my age to fill—alone in a cold and
cheerless room, in the dead hours of
the night, listening to the ravings of a
remorseful man, whose sensitive conscience,
excited by disease, exaggerated
his crime, and unmasked his soul
to a stranger. What he meant by saying
that he atoned, I could not even
conceive. His sordid life, his denial of
pity and kindness to others, and even
to himself, was a worse crime than the
robbery of his father. The one was
prompted by the suffering of his wife;
the other had no palliation. But with
these and other thoughts within me, I
still sat there applying the cooling
snow to his head, and administering
his hourly draught. Two or three
hours more of raving and delirium
passed, and then he sank into an uneasy
slumber. I gathered what spare
clothes I could find around, and muffling
myself in these to secure a portion
of warmth, I took up one of the books
on the table, and sat down to read.
With the exception of once, when he
awakened, and took the draught ready
for him, I remained thus until long after
the grey streaks of dawn had stolen
through the dusty window-panes.

He did not wake until after nine
o'clock. He was evidently much better;
his skin was moist and his mind
clear, though his body was weak. He
looked at me curiously.

“I have been very sick, have I not?”
he inquired at length.

“Yes,” I answered, “you have had
a high fever during the greater part of

the night, talking all sorts of nonsense,
and seeing all kinds of dead people.”

He looked a little alarmed.

“What did I say?”

“Oh, you saw your father, and told
me all about him.”

I fixed my eyes on him closely and
curiously as I said this. He did not
seem so discomposed as I expected.

“Tell me what I said.”

I repeated it nearly word for word.

“Well,” he said, when I had done,
“do you think me a murderer, or was
it the fever?”

“I am willing to put down two-thirds,
at least to the fever.”

He raised himself up.

“Is it possible,” said he, “that
you've been sitting there without fire
all night, and your great coat on me?
Why didn't you get it?”

“I couldn't well disturb you for such
a purpose. I got along very well.”

“Help me off with it now. There,
there. You ought to whisk it well. It
is full of lint. The brush never injures
clothing so much as dust. Remember
that. You should never have suffered
me to lie in your coat. It injures a
coat very much. You'll never be rich,
if you're so extravagant.”

“Why, you miserable old man!” I
exclaimed, provoked at his folly, “do
you suppose great coats were not made
to be of service? I wouldn't have
your feelings for ten times your money.”

“And the doctor said you saved my
life; I remember that. And yet you
despise me.”

“You despise yourself. As for me
I only despise your parsimony. Do
you think people can respect any man
who walks through life alone, doing
no good to kin or kind?”

“I have no kin, and men are not of
my kind.”

“God forbid they were,” I said to
myself.

He seemed to read-my thoughts by
his remark.

“Shall I tell you my secret, then?”

“As you choose about that. I covet
no more confidence than you have already
given me without intending it.”

“I will tell you. I have watched
you before this. You have prudence
and discretion beyond your years; and
I would sooner trust you than graver
and older men. Your feelings are
fresh yet—you will understand me.”

The old man evidently could not repress
the desire to pour out his whole
history, and I sat there and listened.

Parsimony ran in the blood. His
father, Jacob Sharp, had acquired a
fortune of twenty thousand pounds, by
saving and pinching. Abner was
brought up to his father's trade, that
of a silver-smith, and became an expert
workman; but the family taste for
hoarding did not at first betray itself
in him. On the contrary, his vice ran
the other way. Young Abner spent as
fast, and faster than he earned, to the
great disgust of the father; and to add
to the chagrin and anger of the latter,
the son fell in love and married a poor
orphan girl. The elder Sharp grew
furious at this last act of folly, turned
his son out of doors, and swore he never
would see his daughter-in-law.
Abner grew more prudent in money
matters, but an accident to his right
hand threw him out of work, his surplus
means were soon exhausted, and
he and his wife were reduced to want.
She, indeed, obtained a pittance by
sewing, but fell sick, more through
hunger than disease, and languished.

Abner made up his mind to rob his father
of a sufficient sum to pay the passage
of himself and wife to America,
where he believed he could get employment.
Now, old Sharp, in spite of his
avarice, indulged in one luxury, namely,
a night-cap of old ale before he went
to bed. Into this night draught Abner
managed to pour some laudanum,
a dose of which he had in the house.
It was not an overdose by any means,
but it set the miser soundly asleep.
The son obtained the keys, helped himself
to sufficient money from a spot
where he knew it would not be missed
for awhile, and left the house. The
next morning, while he was preparing
to leave for Liverpool, word was
brought him that his father had been
found dead in his chair. The coroner's
jury, on the evidence of the surgeons
who made a post-mortem examination
of the body, rendered a verdict of
“Death from disease of the heart;”
but Abner was filled with the belief
that the dose of laudanum had hastened
his father's death. Hence the remorseful
feelings which embittered his
life. He succeeded to the father's property
as heir-at-law, but all the money
came too late for his wife, who died
the day after his father. From that
time the family propensity broke out
on him fiercely; he gave himself up
totally to the accumulation of money,
and for forty years had devoted his
energy, backed by unmitigated parsimony,
to gain.

“Young man,” said he, when he had
closed his story, “I owe you my life.
I am not ungrateful. I will show you
more of myself than the world knows.
You shall not entirely despise me. Hitherto
I have had no particular care
for one human being beyond another,
and no one has cared for me; but I
can confide in you. I like you. If you
will promise not to reveal it, I will acquaint
you with a secret.”

“As you choose. I do not covet
your confidence, as I told you before
but if your secret be one I can honor
ably keep, I'll hear it.”

He arose, and I assisted him to arrange
his dress. He went to the iron
chest where I had placed his money
and jewelry, and took out a book.

“No one but myself,” said he, “has
ever looked at these entries. The book
will be destroyed when I feel death
approaching. Before you examine it,
let me tell you something. You remember
that James Meadows, the carpenter,
was burned out last spring?”

“Yes.”

“His tools, his household furniture,
the clothing of the family, everything
he had was destroyed. He and his
family barely escaped with their lives.
They were in great distress. Every
one pitied them, and the pity took the
substantial shape of one pound, fourteen
shillings and nine pence.”

“You are mistaken,” I said, “fifty
pounds were sent by an unknown hand
from London. On this Meadows commenced
his work again, and is doing
well. There was one good Samaritan.”

“No; it was merely the payment due
from discriminating wealth to honest
industry crippled by misfortune. Meadows
was an honest and industrious
man, and the fire came through no
carelessness of his. He was my tenant,
and I lost a house by it—a loss
only partly made up by the insurance.
The money came from me through my
London bankers.”

“From you!”

“Yes, from me. I sent it with a
written charge to Meadows that he
should repay the unknown lender, by
sending anonymously, from time to
time, as he could afford it, small sums
of money to poor and honest persons
in distress. I hope and believe that
he will be honest enough to pay the
debt in that way.”

I was much astonished at the statement,
but more so when I glanced over
the book which he placed in my hand.
It was a record extending over many
years, of sums secretly sent to needy
persons, running from hundreds of
pounds down to a few shillings, and
amounted in the aggregate to a heavy
sum.

How the world misjudged this man!
But it was not the world's fault. I
handed him back the book.

“You have promised to keep my secret,”
said he. “I spend nothing on
myself; but I have on others for many
years, wherever I think it deserved.
It is my only relief from the terrible
remorse that weighs me down. But it
makes no diminution to my income.
Everything I touch prospers. Even
that ridiculous Museum, which ruined
its former owner, yields me a handsome
profit. By the by, you must
visit that. Your name will be left
with the doorkeeper. You will find a
deal to interest you there. Come when
you like—but not if it wastes your
time. Time is money—remember
that.”

The doctor came, pronounced the patient
all right, and so I went off to my
breakfast, leaving Sharp, for all I
knew, to luxuriate on the red herring
left from the night before.

From this date began my intimacy
with old Sharp. Every one was
amused and amazed when they heard
of it, attributing it to the fact of my
nursing him all night through his illness.
People thought that the “old
wretch,” as they called him, had one
redeeming trait in his character. Captain
Berkeley told me, before a crowd
of the officers, that I had bound myself
apprentice to Sharp to learn the art of
making money; and Tom Brown
called us “Sharp & Co.” But all that
wore off, and people found other topics
for discussion. I used occasionally to
drop in at the Museum, and sometimes
I would meet the old man there.
Then he came to the printing-room
more frequently. One way or other I
saw a good deal of him.

He never lost an opportunity to impress
on me lessons of economy, or
modes of making money, all of which
I listened to without reply. One piece
of advice I took, however. I was
looking at the collection of minerals in
the Museum, during a half hour's leisure
at noon, when he came in.

“Do you understand mineralogy or
geology?” he asked.

“No! I scarcely know one mineral
from another.”

“Learn both those sciences. The
knowledge might be profitable sometime.
Even a smattering is better
than nothing. I picked up some
knowledge of the kind when I was
working at my trade, and that enabled
me to tell gozzin when I saw it, and so
I was led to buy the Bury property.
I afterwards sold the mining right for
twenty-five thousand pounds.”

I never expected to find a copper-mine,
but I had a thirst for knowledge
of all sorts; and, aided by elementary
works, with the collection at the museum,and
the geological features of the

surrouning country, I soon managed
to make myself very well versed in
mineralogy and the structure of the
earth.

I may as well mention here that I
sent Bagby the information that he
required. The date of the marriage
had, however, been written over an
erasure, and so I wrote to him.