University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
SUSAN MEEK'S INTERVIEW WITH THE AGED LAWYER—THE
WOOF AND THE WARP.

It was Christmas eve. The snow was descending
rapidly. Gusts of wind howled mournfully through the
streets, and ever and anon they burst from the alleys and
narrow courts in explosions. Many a face was turned
quickly away from the rude blasts of the storm in the
vain endeavor to escape their unfriendly peltings. But
it might not be. Every street had its pedestrians. From
the Delaware to the Schuylkill; from the grimly frowning
Moyamensing prison to the extreme northern limits of the
environs of Philadelphia; human beings might have been
seen passing with unceasing tramp along the pavements.
Some on business; some in quest of pleasure, and others—
poor miserable creatures!—because they were destitute of
homes; unfortunate outcasts, relying upon some chance
occurrence for the means of shelter. And, perhaps, a
majority of these were females, with delicate cheeks and
throbbing hearts; and yet with light and tattered garments;
no sufficient covering to protect their heads from

the howling frost-laden blasts; and no effectual defences
for their feet against the chilling snow.

When the great State House clock was striking eight, a
woman of diminutive size, enveloped in a coarse shawl of
scanty dimensions, and partially sheltered from the descending
snow by an old cotton umbrella, the handle of
which had been fractured near the centre, emerged from
an alley into one of the fashionable streets in the western
part of the city. Without lifting her eyes from the pavement,
she strode onward with all the rapidity of which she
was capable. Although curious glances were directed
towards her by the stragglers of both sexes whom she
met, she did not deign to return them. She looked neither
to the right nor the left. Drawing the shawl closely
around her slight form, she continued to urge forward
her steps with an energy and determination that evinced
the importance of her object. Not even the impertinent
observation or rude interrogatory which more than once
assailed her ears, seemed to elicit from her the slightest
perceptible attention.

She continued along Spruce street in an easterly direction,
and only paused for a moment when opposite the
hospital. She never could pass that venerable pile without
pausing. She lifted her eyes, and beheld a glimmering
light in one of the rooms, which she had once occupied.
When she was quite young, an orphan, and without money,
she had been stricken down by illness, and Mr. Knell, the
sexton of St. —'s church, her only serviceable friend in
the world, had prevailed on Mr. Mulvany, the deacon, to
intercede with the rector, whose influence procured her a
gratuitous admission within that institution. She was restored
to health within its walls; and ever after, when
passing it, no matter how inclement the weather might be,
it was her invariable habit to pause and whisper a heartfelt
benediction upon its founders and managers.

Upon reaching Sixth street, Susan Meek, for such was
her humble name, turned her face toward the north, and
continued her brisk pace along the pavement on the east
side of Washington square, over the bleak grounds of
which, and through the snow laden limbs of the trees, the
fierce wind whistled wildly. She crossed Walnut street,

and a few moments afterwards pulled timidly at the bell
of one of the numerous law offices in that vicinity.

She was admitted by a tall, pale old man, who had evidently
been awaiting her arrival. He held a small lamp
in his hand, for the narrow hall or passage had in it no
other light. No family dwelt in the house. All the rooms
had been converted into lawyers' offices. Most of the
tenants spent their evenings at home; and none lodged
there except it might be one or two bachelors of slender
fortune and uncertain practice.

“Ugh—ugh—ugh! What a night?—Ugh—ugh—ugh!
Don't mind me, child—ugh!—It will soon be over!” said
the old man, stooping down and coughing violently.

Seeing symptoms of alarm in the expressive face of
Susan, the old man had placed his hand on her shoulder,
as if apprehensive that she might depart.

“Oh, sir, I hope you do not often have such violent attacks!”
said Susan, when another fit of coughing occurred.
“Give me the lamp, sir, if you please,” she continued,
seeing that the excessive agitations of the old man's chest
rendered him incapable of keeping the flame erect. He
gave it silently, and turning his face towards the wall,
remained for another brief space of time the submissive
victim of his malady.

It might be supposed that a confirmed asthma was quite
sufficient to deprive any one of the ability to pursue the
legal profession; and in truth, Mr. Daniel L. Parke, the
elderly gentleman introduced to the reader, had not, for
many years, attempted to make a speech in court. Once
he had been able to make speeches which electrified his
hearers. Once his income amounted to thousands. And
he had retired with an independent fortune. How he lost
his fortune, may be explained in the sequel; but, being
lost, there need be no explanation of the motive which
induced him, in his old age, to attempt to obtain a subsistence
in the profession by which he had won distinction.

Mr. Parke was now in his sixtieth year. His hair was
white; but his eye was bright, his form erect, and his
hand quite steady, when not convulsed by his agonizing
cough.

“It is over, for the present, thank heaven!” said he,

straightening up, smiling, and taking the lamp again; he
then led the way to a small chamber in the third story,
followed silently by Susan.

A table, a settee, a cot, and a rickety washstand, comprised
the furniture. On the table lay some half a dozen
law books, mostly reports of important cases. And these
few appurtenances alone were left to the once opulent
and famous lawyer! On the wall there hung a threadbare
black coat, the elbows and cuffs of which were perfectly
glazed. he was now wrapped in his patched and
quilt-like gown.

“Sit down, Susan,” said he, quite cheerfully; “sit on
the settee; I have neither room nor money for chairs. I
will swallow a raw oyster I have on the shelf. It is my
best remedy.”

It was likewise his food. A cracker and an oyster,
every hour or so, constituted his daily fare. Sometimes,
but not always, his finances enabled him to enjoy the
luxury of a bottle of ale, or a cup of coffee.

We have said that Susan was a diminutive body. Her
face was thin and bloodless. Her features, however, were
regular and not unhandsome. The mild and intelligent
gaze of her dark eye expressed a mingled sadness and
deference when in the presence of persons of superior intellect,
which could not but inspire the conviction that
although poor, and in humble position, she was one that
might be safely confined in. She was near the thirtieth
year of her age, but might have passed for a much younger
woman.

“Well, child,” said Mr. Parke, sitting beside Susan on
the settee, “I received your note. Upon what business
do you wish to have my advice and assistance? Surely it
must be something of very great importance, or else you
would not have come forth in such terrible weather as this.”

“It is of importance, of vast importance, Mr. Parke,”
replied Susan, her uniformly pale features assuming almost
a deathly hue, while her eyes were steadily fixed on his benevolent
face. Her voice, however, was slightly tremulous.

“Then, child, explain the matter frankly and fully.
You may rely upon my discretion if it be a secret, and
upon having my assistance, if I can serve you. I remember

seeing you frequently at my poor deceased brother's house;
and the good opinion I formed of your conduct there, was
likewise entertained by him and his wife, both, alas, now
no more!”

The old man's eyes were moistened by the recollection.
Susan had been much employed in the family in the capacity
of an humble companion, and had been assiduous in
her kind attentions during the fatal illness which had
carried off both the husband and wife. She had understood,
indeed, that she was a distant relative of Mr. Parke; but
never sought to trace the degrees herself.

“It is not only important to me, but to others who perhaps
have ceased to think of the matter; and to you, sir,
among the rest.”

“To me!” exclaimed Mr. Parke, quickly, adjusting his
silver spectacles, and looking more pointedly in the face
of Susan. “Speak out, then; without delay, without
ceremony.”

“Mr. Eugene Bainton, the brother of your deceased
sister-in-law, has returned to the city.”

“I know it!” said Mr. Parke, sharply, and the moment
after, he was attacked by another fit of coughing, which
rendered him incapable of speaking for several minutes.
“I can never think of that individual with composure,” he
continued, when his chest ceased to be racked by the paroxysm.
“He has been in the city several weeks. I have
met him, but not conversed with him. I want nothing to
do with him. I believe him to be a villain. He ruined
both my brother and myself.”

“He seems to be rich, sir.”

“Ay; and hence I say he is a villain. He was poor;
he had not a dollar, until my brother and myself entrusted
him with our funds, and gave him the power to use our
credit. He is rich; we are beggars; at least, I, the sole
surviving brother and partner, am destitute. Hence, I
repeat, he is a villain. Speak of him no more!”

“I must speak of him. The wicked must be punished,
and the wronged must be righted.”

“Ay, if you can give me any information by which that
may be done, I will dwell upon your words with delight!”

“As you may remember, I was present with both your

brother and Mrs. Parke during their last moments. But
then you were dangerously ill yourself, and it was supposed
you could not recover. An hour before your brother expired,
he pointed to a small black chest in the chamber,
and desired me to take possession of it, and to guard it
carefully when he was no more. He gave me the key from
under his pillow. He said the chest contained some letters
that might be useful to his son, then about six years old.
Both the boy and the box he confided to me—but the poor
child—poor Ned—was dragged away by Mr. Job Mallex,
and put into the house of refuge—”

“Where he died! Where he was murdered, perhaps!”
exclaimed the old man, averting his head, and wiping the
tears from his eyes with a tattered silk handkerchief.

“No! thank God! No—no—no!” cried Susan, in a
shrill voice, with her arms hysterically elevated over her
head.

“Susan! child!” said Mr. Parke, rising energetically
to his feet, and placing his hands on her shoulders. In
vain he endeavored to scrutinize her countenance. There
was a mist before his eyes or a film upon his glasses.
“Susan,” he continued, with an effort to be calm, “repress
your excitement. Let us be composed. You have
started a hope in my breast. Your next word may annihilate
it. But still I would be calm. What am I to understand
by your exclamations? Young Edward, my brother's
child, was truly thrust into the house of refuge, and
by Job Mallex, a stock-jobber, who somewhat mysteriously
intermeddled in the closing scenes of my brother's life.
But I never doubted that my nephew expired at the time
and place they reported. I was unable to bestow upon
him any personal attention. Am I to understand that the
report was false?”

“Will you forgive me? Oh, will you pardon what I
have done?” responded Susan.

“Forgive you! If I have misunderstood the meaning
of your words, oh, yes—I forgive you as freely as I hope
to be forgiven. But if I have rightly conceived your
meaning—if the poor friendless and destitute orphan was
rescued from his miserable place of abode—miserable to
him, because he had hitherto subsisted upon luxuries, and

had been cherished by the smiles of parental affection—
and did not perish—still lives—I not only pardon you,
but invoke all the blessings of Heaven upon your head!”

“Oh, sir! sir! He did not perish! He lives! He is
well!”

The old lawyer was completely overcome. He buried
his face in his hands, and long remained silent.

“But why did you crave my pardon?” asked Mr.
Parke, when he had regained the mastery of his feelings.

“Because I have so long concealed from you the fact
that he lived.”

“And why have you done so?”

“For several reasons. I knew that you were too poor
to maintain him—”

“True! I do not more than half subsist myself.”

“Another reason was my affection for poor Ned. I
could not bear to part with him. Another reason was the
fear, that if his existence were known, Mr. Job Mallex
would again take possession of him. I know not why I
should fear him so; but I have never suffered him to see
little Ned—who is not so small now, either, being ten
years old—and have always avoided meeting him. Mallex
and Bainton were always intimate friends—both were poor
—both are now rich.”

“It is strange!” observed Mr. Parke.

“The chest of letters—”

“Ay, the chest of letters!” iterated the aged lawyer

“Ned and I have been reading them.”

“Can the boy read?”

“That he can; and write, too! Oh, I have toiled
bravely for him! and he learns without difficulty. I was
almost illiterate myself, and hardly able to read the letters
when they were placed in my keeping. But it is surprising
what one may accomplish, when one's heart and
mind are wholly embarked in any purpose!”

“True, true enough!” said Mr. Parke, in admiration of
Susan's enthusiasm and profound deduction.

“I had health, after surviving one terrible attack, and
worked incessantly, both with my needle and at my lessons.
And Ned was scarcely a pace behind me. Mr.
Mulvany, the rector's assistant, likewise conceived an

ardent affection for the child. He taught us both. He
says Ned will make a great scholar, and has already commenced
giving him lessons in Latin.”

“Excellent! excellent!” exclaimed the old man; “I
must see master Ned Parke—”

“Not Parke, sir; we are afraid to call him by that
name. We call him simply Ned Lorn.”

“Lorn was my mother's name. I remember it was
given my brother's boy in baptism. I must see him!”

“You have seen him several times. On several occasions
I have had him with me at the widow Dimple's, where
I was doing some fine work. Several times during your
visits, I have seen you glance kindly at the boy.”

`I remember! Was that my nephew?”

“It was. I trembled when I saw you gaze so steadfastly
at him. I feared you would ask whose child it was.”

“I did ask, when alone with Mrs. Dimple. There was
something in his frank and interesting face that reminded
me of my brother's child.”

“Ah, sir! you need not tell me what Mrs. Dimple replied.
I know it too well!” said Susan, mournfully.

“Noble, generous girl!” said Mr. Parke; “you have
cheerfully borne the injurious—but false—imputations of
the world, for the purpose of more effectually protecting
your charge! True, Mrs. Dimple intimated that according
to the received impression, he was your own child. But
she said she loved the boy, and felt an affection for you.”

“She has ever been my friend. But if it pleased her to
see the boy, her daughter Alice liked to enjoy the same
pleasure. Alice is about the same age as Ned; and it was
always at her express desire that Ned accompanied me to
the mansion.”

“But the letters!” said Mr. Parke, recurring to an idea
which seemed to interest him more and more.

“Oh, yes, the letters. Mr. Mulvany says that two of
them should be placed in your hands, and I have brought
them with me.” She took them from her bosom and
placed them in the aged lawyer's hand.

Mr. Parke opened one of them, and at first seemed to
run his eye carelessly over its contents. But as he proceeded
his interest in the text seemed to be most astonishingly

increased. His hand became nervous; his lips
parted; his eyes dilated. He was entirely engrossed with
the nature and importance of the revelation contained in
the letter, and remained for a long time, unconscious of
the presence of Susan. He hastily opened the second
letter, which excited him quite as much as the first. When
he had finished its perusal, and not till then, did he change
his attitude of deep abstraction. Finally, turning to his
visitor, he said:

“You have done well, Susan. Return now to your
home. Live precisely as you have been doing. I need
not warn you to be prudent—silent—cautious—for there
is danger that you, that we, may lose the dear boy—”

“Oh, sir!”

“Make no change in your mode of living. Keep Ned
out of sight as much as possible. Do nothing without my
advice and concurrence, and everything may be accomplished
that you could wish. These letters are important.
If any one applies to you for them, be ignorant of their
existence. Come to me at this hour any evening. You
will always find me here. I never go out after night-fall
in the winter. Adieu, child! God bless you!”

Susan arose and departed, unable from her emotions to
utter another word.