University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED—ILL-GOTTEN WEALTH A
HUMBUG.

When Mr. Eugene Bainton withdrew from the presence
of the uncomplying widow, he retraced his steps with a
rapidity which seemed to increase in proportion with the
accumulation of indignant thoughts boiling and bubbling
up in his confused head. He never paused until he
reached his house and stood surveying himself in a large
mirror. What feature, what point, was there in which one
could discover the slightest defect? The widow was about
his own age, no richer than himself, and had a daughter
to inherit her fortune—perhaps to be her rival in the gay
world. What could have induced her to reject his offer?
Did she prefer Mallex? or did she credit the stories of old
Mr. Parke and Susan Meek? Had she listened to any
tales respecting his business transactions? He was conscious
that he had been guilty of monstrous offences, and
was such a suitor as no virtuous lady would knowingly
accept for her husband; but how was it possible for any
lady to know anything in relation to his guilt? It was a
mystery he could not solve; and he threw himself down on
a sofa, a prey to feelings of mingled mortification, dread
and resentment.

It was in this condition that Mallex found him, himself
a prey to similar feelings, and having followed close upon
the footsteps of his partner in his retreat from the same
field of discomfiture.

“I have found you at last, Eugene,” said Mallex; “I
was here an hour ago, when you were away. What's the
matter? You seem dejected.”

“Do I! And you seem to be excited! You did not
await me with the patience of Job?” This was said by
Eugene with a faint smile.

“No; I went in quest of you.”

“So! Then you called, perhaps, at—”

“I did. But—”

“You found no—”

“Satisfaction. None, whatever!”

“Is that true, Mallex!”

“Without a particle of equivocation!”

“Certainly you did not tarry long?”

“Quite long enough, I assure you, for all useful purposes.”

“What do you mean?” asked Eugene, sitting upright
on the sofa, and regarding his visitor with interest.

“Just what I say. Let us be candid. We have too long
concealed our intentions respecting this speculation—I
mean the widow—from each other. To-night I proposed,
and—”

“What? what?” cried Eugene, in great excitement.

“Was flatly refused! Peremptorily rejected! Hence
I say there can be no useful purpose subserved by a repetition
of my visits in that quarter.”

“Aha! But then, we must have no more concealments,
you say? Very well. When the widow received you, she
had just given me my congé.”

“I supposed so; but she would acknowledge nothing.
I would congratulate you, were your countenance less
doleful. Why are you sad? Is it pity for me?”

“No, by Jupiter!”

“She did not protest you, too?”

“Do I look as if I had been honored? I do not
feel so!”

“Ah! Who's to pay the damages?”

“True, Job, the damages—or in other phrase, the
penalty! We have both been protested, and are bankrupts
on love's 'change. Something is known or suspected
in relation to our transactions; else why this
result?”

“It is remarkable. With our fortunes—”

“And our persons,” added Eugene, admiring his foot.

“It is most extraordinary. But, perhaps, it is as well.
We both could not have her fortune; and the success of
either might have produced an explosion and blown us all
to destruction.”

Eugene always turned pale at such intimations. He
had been the dupe of Mallex from the beginning. It was

owing to his counsels that he had been led astray in the
first instance; and on several occasions, subsequently, he
had been deterred from yielding to impulses of justice and
inclinations to repair the injuries he had wrought, by the
intimidating pictures of disgrace, ruin and punishment,
held up by his accomplice.

Have we not enough? Had we not better divide our
assets, and—”

“Go to the penitentiary separately?”

“The penitentiary! Do not mention that word again,
I beseech you! What have we done to merit such an
awful punishment? If a breach of trust could be established,
still, being a partner, no such penalty would be incurred.
If my nephew really died, I could have had no
agency in it. He was not placed in the institution through
any instrumentality of mine. If he lives, his claims would
only involve a civil controversy.

“These are weak and foolish qualms, Bainton. If we
have done nothing wrong, why be alarmed? But I say
there is danger, and I know what I say. While we are
united, we are safe. We can confer with each other only,
and keep our own counsels. But if you were to attempt
an explanation to others, and propose, or act without a
proposition, upon a plan of reparation and restitution,
every transaction would be investigated, and they might
afford your enemies and mine ample grounds to go upon.
Fraud would be alleged, and proved, and our destruction
would be complete. You were—and I too—precipitate in
the recent transaction with old Parke, and that infernal
lawyer Persever—”

“Do you think so? Why, I thought it was an admirable
arrangement. Nothing has afforded me more satisfaction—”

“Nonsense! Let your heart be turned to steel, or it
will soon be pierced through by your enemies. What do
you think Parke did with that money?”

“How should I know?”

“How should I know?”

“Do you?”

“I do. I was soon convinced we had committed a silly
act—that we furnished the enemy with the means of

assault—and then I watched them, or had them watched.
A portion of the money will no doubt be expended on
Susan Meek and her protege—”

“Well! I have no objection.

“But I have. Death, or impenetrable obscurity, can
alone secure us against molestation from that quarter; and
if you suppose that money, obtained as that was, and so
expended, will have the effect of sealing their lips, you
will soon find yourself most bitterly disappointed. Have
we not had a specimen already? What else, think you,
caused our rejection—”

“True! Job, you are right! But how has the money
been expended? Persever has not determined to bring
suit?”

“He has left the city. He started the day after Parke
received the money.”

“Whither did he go? Is he to return?”

“He has gone to the west to trace your footsteps—”

“Hah!—”

“Yes, sir! And, as I learn his family do not expect
him to return for many months, it is probable that he will
traverse the plains, and collect evidence of every transaction.”

“Job, we are ruined!”

“No, sir; be guided by me, and all will be well.”

“I will! But had we not better sell—”

“No! Neither real estate, stocks, nor any species of
property must be transferred. It would occasion suspicion,
and might be prevented, as Radley says, by an injunction.”

“Radley! I don't like that smooth-faced and oily-tongued
lawyer. Don't let him into our secrets, Job.”

“No further than necessity requires. But I have a
scheme to disappoint this skulking young champion of the
old lawyer.”

“What is it, Job?”

“No matter; it is not perfected yet. You shall share
the benefit of it. We must, in the meantime, put on bold
faces. The effects of the widow's conduct must not be
visible in our aspects. I have a rod in pickle for her, too.”

“I'm glad of it. I never saw such cool conduct in my
life. She left me no margin for another bid.”

“Ha—ha—ha—ha! It was the same with me. She
must have been rehearsing it! No matter; we'll corner
her, yet. We have only to be prudent, and keep our own
counsel. No confidants, no confederates. We may some
day get her banker in our clutches.”

“Beware of Radley, then!”

“He has more reason to beware of me. I could cage
him, if I saw proper. I will use him, and when I am done
with him, I shall, if necessary, cast him to the dogs! If
we can maintain our ground here; that is, if no new evidence
springs up, in regard to the identity of your nephew,
we shall come off conquerors.”

The door bell was heard, and a servant traversed the
hall. After a pause, the voice of the menial was heard,
even in the parlour, telling some one to “go off.” The
front door was then closed; but before the servant had
retraced his steps to the kitchen, the bell was rung again,
and with more violence than ever. Again the door was
opened, and the servant once more ordered the pertinacious
individual to depart. Eugene, stepping to the parlour door,
heard his name uttered, and by a female. He told his man
to admit her. She came into the parlour, and, not waiting
for an invitation, sat down on the flrst chair that presented
itself. She was an aged woman, with iron-gray hair. Her
complexion was dark; her features large and coarse, with
tufts of grizzly hair on her chin and upper lip. There was
an habitual and incessant shaking of her head, like the
quivering of a needle on a pivot; and yet she smiled constantly,
but not sweetly.

“Who do you wish to see?” asked Bainton.

“You—Mr. Bainton; and the other gentleman, too,
though I didn't expect to find him here. I know him,”
and her head shook more violently, and her smile became
more horrible as she spoke.

“Who are you?” demanded Eugene.

“I'm Mrs. Sutly. La, can't you think?”

“No! What do you want?”

“You can't think who I am? shut that door and I'll
tell you.”

Bainton directed the servant who stood in the hall to go
about his business, and then closed the door.

“I remember you,” said Mallex, rather fiercely; “you
are one of the matrons at the house of refuge.”

“True,” said Eugene; “I now recollect her distinctly.
I thought I had seen her somewhere.” And it would have
been difficult to entirely forget the forbidding quiver of
her head, her harsh dark features, and her sardonic smile.

“What do you want, old woman?” asked Bainton, betraying
in his manner the disgust he felt.

“Can't you guess? You needn't frown so, and turn up
your nose at me. I know you would rather see me here
than a certain fair-skinned boy I could name.”

A silence ensued for several moments, during which both
the men turned pale. And the old woman scrutinized
their faces, her horrible head shaking involuntarily all the
time.

“My nephew is dead?” said Eugene.

“And buried,” said Job.

“You both think so—no doubt you do. I won't dispute
it—no doubt you think so.”

“Don't you believe it? Don't you know it?” demanded
Bainton.

“Well, I can't say I do, to you. I told other folks he
was dead; but may be I was mistaken.”

“Old woman,” said Mallex, “I think I know your object.
You wish to frighten us, and to extort money—”

“I don't, sir—it's no such thing!” said she, quickly
and harshly, and approaching her face so near to his, that
he impulsively drew back.

“Very well; bnt if such had been your purpose, you
would have been defeated. We have the physician's certificate
of his death, which is official testimony.”

“Oh, yes! 'Twas Dr. Drastic. He asked me the name
of the dead boy, and I told him Edward Lorn Parke. Ha
—ha—ha! He put it down, just as I told him, and signed
his name to it. But now he's fallen out with me, and got
me removed. He says my old shaking head scares the
boys, and hinders 'em from getting well!”

“Was not the dead boy's name correctly given?” asked
Eugene, with a quivering voice.

“No. And I'm glad it wasn't. A young woman stole
the boy away, and I was afraid I would suffer for it.

They were dying there several every day. So I said he
was dead, the next time his name was called—and the
doctor was my witness.”

Eugene seemed to be paralyzed. He was, for an instant,
incapable of speech or motion. But not so Mallex. He
arose quickly, and closed the inside shutters of the window.

“Don't do that,” said the old hag, with her satanic
smile; “my son Dick, who came with me, is waiting out
there in the street, and he might think something was happening.”

Mallex threw them open again violently, and resumed
his seat.

“What do you propose?” asked Eugene, when sufficiently
recovered from his shock.

“When you dug up the boy—the other boy—not your
nephew, I said you ought to allow me a hundred dollars a
year—”

“I will—”

“No you wont! That wont do, now. I've found out
that a great fortin belongs to the boy, which you two have
got the use of as long as he's kept back.”

“How did you learn that?” demanded Job, very fiercely.

“I larnt it from my darter.”

“Your what?”

“My darter, who is chambermaid and cook for Mrs.
Persever.”

Again the flush which had been reinstated fled from the
cheeks of the men. Dangers seemed to multiply around
them. They consulted together briefly. Mallex decided,
while Bainton acquiesced.

“How much money do you require for your services?”

“What services?” asked the hag, with a deeper smile
and a more rapid vibration of her head.

“The aid you are to give us hereafter. We want your
friendship and assistance.”

“Now you talk like a gentleman of sense! I must have
two hundred and fifty dollars a year. That will keep me
comfortable, and won't be extortioning too much.”

“Remember that the boy who died and was buried, is
now but a skeleton. There can be nothing left but the
bones. No one can identify them. If brought into court,

we have Dr. Drastic's certificate that they are the bones
of young Parke; and who can deny it?”

“I could deny it; but I wont, if you pay what I ask.”

“And what would your denial avail?”

“I could prove it! But I wont tell you how. Oh, I've
seen people dug up after being dead twenty years. They
don't crumble so fast under ground as you think.”

“You could do nothing—and we fear nothing from that
source. But you might be of service to us hereafter. If
you will consent to this, you shall have what you demand.”

“Could you pay me some of the money down? My
Dick wants some cash dreadful bad, to help him to get
married. And poor folks are dead sure to have a house
full.”

“You shall have one-half the sum now,” said Mallex,
looking over some bills in his pocket-book.

“Then I'll sarve you! And you'll find me worth the
money. Give it to me.”

“The old lawyer lodges at Persever's?” asked Mallex,
still retaining the money.

“He does so. It was him my darter heard telling all about
this grand business. He sleeps in the back building right
over the kitchen, and we sleep in the story above, right
over his room; and it makes no odds whether we're in the
kitchen below, or in the chamber above, his everlasting
cough keeps us awake half of every night. I wish he was
taken away, dead or alive! Why don't you give me the
money? are you going to repent?”

“Not I!” exclaimed Mallex fiercely, his brow contracted,
and his eye glowing with a savage expression. “Here is
the money. But I want a longer talk with you. Can you
go with me to my house?”

“If Dick goes, too, and waits for me in the street.”

“It is number —, in — Row. Go. I will meet you
there!”

“What do you want with her, Job?” asked Eugene, when
Mrs. Sutly had departed.

“No matter, Bainton. Let it suffice that whatever it
may be, the object is as interesting to you as to myself.
You have that guarantee. I can do nothing in this business
which will not be mutually beneficial.”

“Enough. Only let it be understood between us that
no capital crime is to be added to what has already been
done. I would rather—”

“Nonsense, man! What great crime do you suppose
me capable of committing? We have a brace of lawyers
on our track. One has a wise head, and the other a bold
heart. Must we not endeavour to counteract them? We
must work. We must learn to be expert in their arts. If
they mine, we must countermine, or they will blow us up.”

“That is justifiable. Go on, then. I leave it all to
you. I acknowledge my incapacity to contend against
them. I often wonder in amazement at what I have already
done.”

“There was nothing original in your conduct.”

“True; I followed your instructions.”

Mallex withdrew and hastened to his lodgings. He met
Mrs. Sutly at the steps. They entered the parlour. It
was dimly illuminated. The jet of gas, not larger than a
pea, did not afford light enough to betray the change which
had taken place in the countenance of Mallex. Both the
man and the woman were pale with the thoughts that possessed
them. They sat for some moments in silence; while
the outline of the form of Dick was plainly observable in
the street.

“You say,” remarked Mallex, in a low, unnatural voice,
“that the old man sleeps in a back room?”

“No, I didn't!”

“You did not? I thought you did. Here is another
note—a fifty dollar bill.” He placed it in her hand, and
she clutched it.

“I didn't say he slept—but he lays there, or rather
walks. He don't sleep scarcely any at all; it's walking and
coughing all the time. And, blast him! he won't let any
body else sleep?”

“Would you quiet him if you could do it without
trouble?”

“I understand. Yes, I would! If anything could be
made by it, and it could be done as you say without trouble
—without being disturbed for it arterwards.”

“You can easily make five hundred dollars by it.”

“Tell me how. Don't be afeard. I've done such sarvice

before. I've quieted noisy children in my time, jest
for the sake of peace.”

“What do you kindle your fires with?”

“Charcoal.”

“Of course you have skillets and ovens in the kitchen?”

“In course, and long-handled stewing-pans.”

“Does the old man lock his door?”

“Never! He don't close it. He says he can't get his
breath in a closed room. My darter goes up to bed an hour
before I do. When I go up I always pass by his door.”

“Good! Admirable! But does he never sleep?”

“Yes, a little. I always can tell when he falls to sleep.
It's when he stops coughing. Then I goes up; and if I
can get to sleep before he wakes, I can have my little rest.
But it's precious little sleep I has myself, and I do with as
little as possible on account of the dreaming.”

“Everything conspires so accomplish our plan! The
five hundred dollars will be yours, and the old man's cough
will be cured.”

“The old man's no baby. He might be too much for
me; and it will not do to have anybody else in the secret.”

“No. But you forget the pan of coals. When he's
asleep, if they be gently placed under his bed—the chimney
stopped up with a pillow—and the door closed, he will
never annoy any one again.”

“Do you think so? are you sure of it? I've never seen
it done that way.”

“It's all you will have to do. Only when the pan has been
there about an hour, or perhaps it had better be two, you
must go in softly, and remove the pillow. Then go to bed.
Your work will be finished. Do not let Mr. Eugene Bainton
know anything about our agreement. Come to me—
say a month afterward—and I will pay you the money.”

“Will it be five hundred besides the fifty?”

“Yes!”

“When must I do this sarvice?”

“Ay, when shall it be done? Let me see. Not immediately,
for several reasons. You will find out from some
one of the family when Persever is to return. It must be
before he returns. He may not be back for many months.
The longer it is put off, the safer you will be from suspicion.

But if anything occurs to bring Persever back sooner than
the time fixed upon when he departed, you must act promptly,
and at all hazards. Be in readiness to do for the old
man at a moment's warning.”

The old woman made no reply. She arose and departed
without any word of leave-taking. Mallex strode towards
the chandelier, but paused abruptly. He did not want
more light. He then groped his way through the darkness
to his chamber. He could not sleep. * * * *