University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
AS EASY TO BE HAPPY AS MISERABLE.

A few days after the interview with Mallex and Bainton,
Mr. Parke indulged in a protracted solitary walk in the
western portion of the city. The check for $10,000 had
been paid. One tenth of the sum had been handed to
young Persever, who immediately set out on his journey
to the far west. During his absence the aged lawyer was
to lodge at his house, and protect his family.

There was now a serious cast upon the old man's brow,
notwithstanding the ray of good fortune which seemed to
illumine his path. He could not perceive that his acquisition
of money added to his happiness, accompanied as it
was with a perplexing and complicated case of wrong and
villainy on the part of others, whose crimes it was incumbent
on him to expose. And he was troubled with the
fear that Susan's story might possibly be a fabrication;
not a vile invention, perhaps; but an unsubstantial woof,
destined to vanish under the touch of the iron rule of law,
and in the scales of exact justice. He pitied Susan; she
might be the dupe of others; and he was reluctant to believe
her capable of premeditated wrong. He felt an attachment

for the child; for he was a perfect counterpart
of the brother he had so dearly loved.

With a grave and severe visage the old man turned from
a fashionable street into the alley where Susan dwelt, and
rapped at the door. He was admitted by Ned, who was
radiant with joy upon beholding the tall, gaunt form of his
aged friend.

“Ah, Ned! I'm glad to see you well, my boy!” said
Mr. Parke, holding both hands of the lad, and gazing
steadfastly at his fair face, until a rising moisture dimmed
his vision. Then leading him to the table where he usually
studied, he desired him to take his books to another
chamber, so that he might be learning his lesson during the
interview between Susan and himself. Ned obeyed with
alacrity.

“Now, child,” said Mr. Parke, when seated beside
Susan, “I wish to recur to the subject of Ned's parentage.
The boy haunts my midnight visions. Sometimes I see
him in distress, appealing to me by the endearing name of
uncle, to rescue him from destruction. At others he appears
emancipated from the clouds of doubt and obscurity,
smiling as a grateful comforter and supporter of my declining
years. Tell me, as if you stood in the presence of
your God, whether he is the veritable son of my deceased
brother and of his deceased wife!”

“I call my Maker to be witness of my solemn declaration,
that he is the living offspring of your deceased
brother, and of his lawful wife, the sister of Eugene Bainton.
I declare it with an upturned brow, and my eyes appealing
to Heaven for the verity of my assertion. Oh,
sir! why should I deceive you?” she continued, while
tears trickled down her pallid cheeks. “There is no acknowledged
tie of kindred between him and me. But I
have loved, and do love him. I loved him, because he was
abandoned by the world, and because I pledged my word
to his dying parents to take care of him. Hitherto I have
done so. And God has rewarded me. I have been repaid
by the affection he has manifested for me, and by the serene
consciousness within my breast of having faithfully performed
my duty. I look for no other reward. I can have
no other recompense, if his legitimacy be acknowledged,

and his fortune recovered. On the contrary, his associates
must then be changed, and I must lose him. He will rise
to a station superior to mine.”

“You are mistaken, Susan. If what you say be established,
if what you desire be accomplished, he will be
indebted to you for everything. Were he to prove ungrateful,
I should cast him off as an incorrigible reprobate.
You will have acted a noble part. Your virtues and
merits will have fitted you for companionship with the best
and the highest in the land; and in this country all have
an equal right to aspire to any eminence that may be
achieved by superior merit. But I must inform you that
the resident physician of the institution to which my brother's
son was sent, has signed in due form a statement of
his death. The time, the disease, and the place of interment,
are exactly certified. And Eugene Bainton has
had the body disinterred, and transferred it to —
cemetery, where a costly monument, with a flourish of inscriptions,
attests the place of his final repose. How am
I to be assured who is right, you or the doctor?”

“Heaven knows! I can only repeat what I have so
solemnly asserted. The child had not been long in the
institution before I stole him away. At that time the
poor children confined there were dying daily of the scarlet
fever. When I obtained admittance, several were lying
dead. The cot next to Ned's contained a boy in the
agonies of death. I had purposely made a dress of ample
dimensions, which I wore on the occasion, and under its
folds I contrived to steal the child away. This, before
God, and before any judge, I am willing to avouch. And
poor Ned will likewise swear to it, for he remembers distinctly
so remarkable an occurrence. Oh, sir! might not
the doctor have been mistaken! Might he not have witnessed
the death of the little boy I have mentioned, under
the supposition it was Ned? He had no previous knowledge
of him—”

“It might be so, Susan!” said Mr. Parke, interrupting
her. “It must have been so! Were he not of my blood,
he would not mingle so much in my dreams! But this is
my old superstition. And yet, Susan, if it be so—if it
be precisely as you say—and as I believe—yet it will not

avail in law. The certificate Bainton holds cannot be
combated in court, short of an ocular demonstration of its
error; and that it would be impossible to produce, after
the lapse of so many years. If the body of the child
under the monument were exhumed, it would not now afford
any evidence in our behalf. Nothing but a fleshless
skeleton remains.”

“It is very true. But, sir, so far as I am concerned,
all I ask is to be permitted to work for Ned and to keep
him near me. I'll answer for his education! But, alas!
that reminds me he must soon lose his principal tutor, Mr.
Mulvany, who is about to leave us! Oh, then, my fears
that they will drag the poor boy away again, will ever torment
me!”

“Fear nothing more, Susan. I will believe your statement.
I am inclined to credit every word you have
spoken in relation to his identity. At all events I will
act precisely as if it were not controverted, and will watch
over Ned's welfare as if I knew him to be my nephew.”

“Thank you! God will reward you!”

“If any one ventures to molest him again, he will find
it a perilous undertaking. But, as you say, his education
must be attended to.”

“Oh, yes; and although you may protect him from personal
injury by the potent arm of the law, you are destitute
of pecuniary means. Hence I shall have the satisfaction
of providing—”

“No; no, Susan. You are mistaken. I have grown
rich since we first met—indeed since we last parted.
Bainton has paid me a large sum of money which he
owned was justly mine. A much larger sum would belong
to my brother's son, if we could prove he lived. But of
that, more hereafter. You say Mr. Mulvany is about to
leave the city?”

“Yes, sir,” said Susan, her head slightly declined, and
something resembling a blush mounting to her fair forehead.

“How far has Ned progressed in his Latin?”

“He has gone through the grammar twice, and is beginning
it the third time.”

“So! Mr. Mulvany builds on a sure basis.”

“He is a very learned man, sir; he graduated at the
Theological Seminary. He was poor—a poor poet's son,
and was educated at the expense of some rich ladies. But
he is grateful, kind, pious, sweet-tempered—”

“O, ho! don't confess any more, child!” said the discerning
judge of human nature. “He is just the man to
make such a woman happy. Here!” continued Mr. Parke,
placing bank notes to the amount of $500 in Susan's
hand. “This money belongs to Mr. Mulvany. Tell him
it is justly his due. Say that good works truly have
their reward. And charge him not to regard me as a
hopeless reprobate, notwithstanding my unpalatable sermon
preached to him the other day. But where is he going,
and when does he depart?”

“He is going to Summerton, sir, to be a teacher in the
college there. He is to be paid $600 a-year. As assistant
to the rector here, he is only allowed $400, and he
thinks it is his duty to go.”

“And I think so too.”

“Oh, yes, sir. It is much less expensive living there.
He can lay by something every year. But in the city,
with his present salary, he finds it difficult to make anything.”

“You are an economist, Susan,” said Mr. Parke, smiling;
“and no doubt you and Mr. Mulvany have talked
these things over?”

“Yes, sir; he is my friend, and Ned's friend. We are
almost like members of the same family. Why, sir, one
half of Ned's books have been bought with Mr. Mulvany's
money.”

“And now Ned will have the satisfaction of repaying
him.”

“But he never expended such a sum as this!” cried
Susan, looking at the notes in unaffected astonishment.
“He won't have it! He'll give it to Ned. He never expected
to be paid anything, sir.”

“No matter. He must receive it, and keep it, too.
And if his services and bounties have merited such a recompense,
what will be the amount due you, do you suppose,
Susan?”

“Not a cent, sir! I would be the most miserable

creature in the world, if any one were to suppose that my
attentions to Ned were designed to merit a pecuniary reward.
No, sir! Since my testimony has been controverted,
I desire to vindicate my motives by forbearing to
receive any compensation whatever, save the esteem and
gratitude of the dear boy, and the confidence of his friends.
I might now relinquish him into your hands; but I have
determined to make a new sacrifice rather than resign him
to any one, until his rights are acknowledged, both morally
and legally.”

“What new sacrifice, Susan?”

“No matter, sir; I would prefer to conceal it from the
knowledge of the world, as it might cause some mercenary
design to be attributed to me.”

“But, child, recollect that I have never sympathized
with the censorious world, in supposing there might be a
possibility that your conduct was actuated by unworthy
motives. Believe me, truly, to be your friend; one in
whom you may safely repose your confidence; one with
whom you should freely consult; and from whom you
should withhold no secret, in which Ned may be directly or
remotely concerned.”

While Mr. Parke was thus speaking a deep crimson hue
spread over the half-averted face of Susan.

“I will tell you!” she said, with something resembling
a violent effort. “I will tell you, so that you may perceive
that I speak the truth at all times, and under all
circumstances. Mr. Mulvany has proposed to make me
his wife, and take me with him to Summerton. It is my
intention to decline—”

“No, no! Stop a moment, till this tormenting fit is
over!” Mr. Parke then yielded to the demand of his
annoying malady, which agitated his frame for the space
of several minutes. “Now,” he continued, raising his
head, and smiling triumphantly, “it is over for a couple
of hours at the least. No; you must not decline. It is
an advantageous offer. Mulvany is a fine scholar. He
is virtuous, amiable, modest, industrious—oh, I see you
agree with me! Then why reject him?”

“I will not leave Ned for all the husbands in the
world!”

“Devoted girl! But Summerton is close by—not an
hour's distance by the railroad.”

“And what might not occur any hour? What did occur
during the hour of my visit to you?”

“When left by himself. But suppose he were to accompany
you?”

Susan drew her breath quickly, while her eyes glowed
with unusual brilliancy. Her lips were slightly parted, as
she panted; and a smile of hopeful joy, struggling to vanquish
her fears, imparted a beautiful animation to her
features.

“Oh, sir! If it might be so—if you would consent to
it—”

“I will; I do, child!”

“Bless you!” she cried, seizing his hand and kissing it,
with grateful tears in her eyes. “Then Ned will be safe!
He will be out of their reach. They will not know where
to find him!”

“Sagacious girl! Your idea is correct. Let no one
know whither he is to go—not even himself. For there is
a mystery in this desire of his enemies to carry him off,
which they have not explained to my satisfaction. They
may renew the attempt; and we must not trust them. I
leave you to break the news to poor Mulvany. Remember
to be as secret as the grave. When everything is prepared
at Summerton for your reception, you will have only to go
to church, unostentatiously, you know, and then to the boat
or cars. But we will confer again on this interesting subject.
Send Mulvany to me. Ned shall no longer be a
charity pupil. The full price shall be paid to the principal
of the institution. Farewell! I have not had so light and
merry a heart this many a day. Kiss Ned for me!” And
Mr. Parke withdrew with an elastic step.

Immediately after the departure of the aged lawyer,
was the arrival of Mr. Mulvany. He came with many
misgivings. From the expression of Susan's countenance
when his proposal was made to her, he felt convinced that
she was upon the eve of pronouncing a negative response.
Hence it was that he urged her to give him no answer then,
but to take time to consider, and weigh deliberately all
the arguments in his favor which might suggest themselves

to her understanding. But now was the appointed time.
The hour had arrived for him to have a final answer; and
he approached the presence of his mistress with fear and
trembling.

When he entered he beheld Susan sitting in her low
plain rocking chair, swinging backwards and forwards,
like the pendulum of a clock. There was a cast of abstraction
in her face, but her cheeks were not so pale as usual.
Her hands hung down on either side. One of them held
the five bank notes—each of the denomination of one
hundred dollars—for Mr. Mulvany; the other held as solitary
bill which Mr. Parke had contrived to insert between
her fingers when she seized his hands. This was one of
the red-lettered thousand dollar notes of the Philadelphia
Bank. She had not seen it. She had even forgotten the
others. Her thoughts were away at Summerton, where she
was strolling in imagination along the green margin of the
beautiful river, with her husband and Ned.

Mr. Mulvany stood before her in mute astonishment.
He beheld no averted face, no downcast eye, no symptoms
of rejection. There was rather an encouraging smile upon
her lip, as she gazed at him.

“Sit down,” said she. He obeyed in silence, with his
eyes riveted on the bank notes. “Oh, you wonder where
these came from, and who they belong to?” she continued,
raising the hand which held the five notes. “They are
yours. Ned's uncle left them for you—”

“For me, Susan?” asked the surprised scholar.

“Yes, for you—in payment for your services to Ned, in
teaching him Latin. There; take them!” and she placed
them in his hand, which however did not close upon them.

“But what is that note for?” he asked, looking at the
one in the other hand.

“Which?”

“That!” said he, pointing at it.

“Bless me! What is this? Where did it come from?
What is it, William?” She had never called him William
before.

“Susan!” said he, “has any one been robbing the
bank?”

“Mercy on us! Can you think it, William?”

“No! I can think no such thing. But, truly, this is a
bank note for one thousand dollars. Is it Ned's money?”

“I know no more about it than you do, William.”

“And, Susan dear, I know nothing of it whatever.”

“It is strange, Mr. Mulvany, very strange! Oh, now
I can guess! He must have slipped it in my hand and
intended it for a present.”

“Who, Susan?”

“Mr. Parke. Did I not tell you he left the other bills
for you? He says he's rich. And no doubt he has left
the other note as a—a—present for me!”

“What sort of a present, Susan? Tell me my fate now
—don't think—only say what sort of a present do you
suppose he intended it for?” and while he spake he seized
her unresisting hand.

“William! a wedding present!”

“Dies Faustus!” exclaimed the scholar, rapturously
kissing her fair hand.

“Come, now, William, that's not right!” her face perfectly
scarlet. “I don't know what your Latin means,
and it's ungenerous in you to reply to my speech in a language
I don't understand!”

“It means a lucky day, Susan. But if my tongue was
not understood, you could comprehend the meaning of my
lips. Oh, joyful day!” he continued, raising his hands
and eyes aloft.

“Because fortune has bestowed some wealth upon us?”

“No! a fig for the money! But because I have obtained
this hand!” said he, squeezing it between both of his, and
then covering it with kisses.

“Then, sir, it seems you can hear and comprehend a
consent which I am sure has not been spoken by me.”

“But I demanded a reply. Your expressive silence was
amply sufficient. I am a happy man, Susan. And you
have not the heart to inflict pain on the lowliest human
being.”

“No, William. The time for hesitation is past. Hence-forward
our fates are to be united. The only obstacle
that was in the way has been removed.”

“I understand. Ned was the difficulty. Ah, Susan,
if his uncle has removed him, I fear you will be unhappy.”

“You do not understand me, now. He is to go with us
—to live with us—to be your pupil still—and to carry
money to the institution to defray all his expenses. But
this must be whispered,” said she, repressing her emphasis.
“Even Ned must not know it beforehand, else he might be
surprised into a betrayal of our purpose. Mr. Parke
suggests it.”

“No, Susan; let me beg you to tell him everything.
After what he has seen and suffered, I will answer for his
discretion.”

“It will be a comfort for me to do as you say,” said
Susan; “and since you say it, it shall be done. Ned!
come down, my sweet boy!”

Ned obeyed with alacrity.

“Ah, Mr. Mulvany,” cried he, “I think I have mastered
my conjugations this time. Try me!” He gave
the book to his teacher, and recited his lesson without
committing an error.

“All right—out again!” cried Tim, throwing open the
door.

“Tim!” exclaimed Ned.

“Tim!” cried Susan.

And they both seized Tim's hands when he entered, and
wept with joy.

“Oh, he's a good one! He's the best friend we've got
in the world!” said Tim, sitting down near the fire, and
holding Ned on his knee.

“Who do you mean, Tim?” asked Susan.

“The young lawyer—Mr. Perseverance, I think's his
name. He's got a heart! Hasn't he, Ned? I saw the
big tears rising in his eyes, when he looked at you, Ned.
I knowed then we were safe. Lord presarve us! what'd
become of you, boy, if it hadn't been for him! And I
—I might 've died in prison, if he hadn't got me out.
The keeper said I was indebted to Mr. Perseverance for
my freedom.”

“Indeed, he is a noble young man,” said Susan.

“And an excellent scholar,” said Mr. Mulvany.

“Tim, did they give you enough to eat, and a bed to
sleep on?” asked Ned.

“Yes; I must own they treated me very well. The

keeper received a message from Mrs. Dimple, to make me
comfortable. And she sent me word she wouldn't ride out
again till I drove her. She's a kind lady—but I'm a going
to leave her!”

“Leave her! Why?” asked Susan.

“I'll tell you—but you must all keep it a secret. Betty
brought the message to the keeper, and I saw her, and
talked with her. Don't hang down your head, Susan. I
know you would 've come, if Mr. Parke and Mr. Perseverance
hadn't forbid it; Betty's told me everything. She
said she heard one of Mrs. Dimple's friends saying Mrs.
D. was going to get married to Mr. Bainton or to Mr.
Mallex.” This was spoken in a low tone, and with the
gravity of an announcement of fearful import.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” said Ned, who had listened with
extraordinary interest.

“It cannot be possible,” said Susan.

“It was Mr. Bainton who came here with Mallex,” said
Tim. “Mr. Perseverance told me. So he can't be my
employer. If she marries either of 'em, I'm off. I wouldn't
stay there for anything they could give me. And what's
more, little Alice would die. Betty says she wont speak
to either of them men since that dreadful night.”

“And that is true,” said Susan. “Ned and I were
there yesterday, and she told us so.”

“But what does Mrs. Dimple say to the conduct of the
gentlemen?” asked Mr. Mulvany.

“I have not heard,” said Susan. “But this I know;
Mr. Parke and Mrs. Persever (who is a sweet lady) have
visited Mrs. Dimple's every day since Christmas. I don't
believe this tale of Betty Simple, Tim. If there were any
truth in it, Mr. Parke—your true uncle, Ned—would not
be so intimate with her.”

“Betty does tell many things she hears that never
comes to pass. I hope she's out of it this time. But I'll
soon see. I must go, now. I haven't been home yet. I'll
see you all again to-night. Good bye.”

“Stop, Tim, cried Susan; “I have something to tell
you.”

“It'll do the next time I come. I'm in a hurry, now.
Good bye.”

“But it's something very, very important!”

“Wait till night.”

“It may be in relation to another wedding in contemplation,”
said Mr. Mulvany.

“No 'taint. Betty and me's not engaged yet—though
Alice and her mother, and Betty herself, wants it to be so.
I'm in no hurry yet. Good bye—I can't wait another
second.” And, true enough, the next moment he was out
in the alley, and hastening towards the mansion of Mrs.
Dimple.

But before the lapse of fifteen minutes, during which
time Susan had informed Ned of their future plans, with
many injunctions to be prudent, and not to betray their
intentions to others, Tim re-appeared before them.

“I'm back a'ready! It does my legs good to run, after
being locked up so long. I come to tell you Mrs. Dimple's
going to let Alice have a real juberly, as she calls it, to-night
in the nursery. Mr. Parke's to be there—and Mrs.
Perseverance. And all of you are invited—and nobody
else. She says you must come, too, Mr. Mulvany—for
Mr. Parke has been telling her something or other about
you that makes her smile—the mother, I mean, not Alice.
And when Mrs. Dimple smiles that way, she's always so
kind to her servants, and to Alice, and in fact to everybody.
She's the most condescendingist lady in the world. She's
rich, but not always proud. Yet when the parlours are full
of grand people, she can be grand, too, jest like a queen.
Oh, there'll be fine times! Betty's been sent for cakes,
and I don't know what else, and a row of bottles in the
cellar has had the cobwebs brushed off, to make 'em ready
for drinking. I don't know what a juberly means—but I
heard 'em say it was for Ned. That's all. Good bye!”
And before any one had time to address him, Tim was off
again.