University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
NEW VICISSITUDES—NED'S PROSPECTS DIMMED AGAIN.

The few days intervening before the commencement of
the session were days of bliss to Ned and Alice. Long
and refreshing promenades on the green bank of the river,
where every gilded insect or painted flower was the medium
of an intercommunication of sentiment; or kneeling together
in the chapel, where the sweet sounds of praise, and
the solemn tones of prayer, seemed to launch their thoughts
beyond the skies, and permit a limited foretaste of the redeemed
and sanctified in the pearly realms of heaven; such
indulgences and enjoyments as these, could not but leave
ineffaceable marks upon their memories, and deep impressions
on their hearts, to be fondly dwelt upon in after
years as the period, alas! always the brief period, of unmingled
felicity.

Although Susan or Mr. Mulvany, and often both, accompanied
Alice and Ned in their rambles, the delighted
young companions never experienced the slightest restraint
imposed on their innocent prattle. They said nothing
more or less, nor differently from what they would have
spoken if they had been left entirely alone. The long
walk on the luxuriantly green bank of the placid stream
was their favorite haunt. The row of trees sheltered them
from the sun, and the fresh breezes from the sparkling and
dimpled water fanned their merry faces.

The only drawback to those blissful moments, was an
occasional tear which was perceived to fall from Susan's
eye, when she heard Mr. Mulvany struggling with an inveterate
cough. For some months previously he had been
annoyed with a hoarseness, to which but little attention
had been hitherto paid; but now there were other symptoms;
pain in the chest, discharges of blood from the
lungs, and sensations of chilliness followed by fever. Susan
had witnessed the fatal termination of too many cases of
similar symptoms in the city, not to be very much alarmed.
But Mr. Mulvany perceiving it, strove to dispel her apprehensions.

He was more than ever assiduous in his kind
attentions, and often apparently exhilarated in his spirits.
But his sparkling eye, and rosy cheek, and panting breath,
were evil omens in Susan's estimation.

His disease had been engendered in the church, where
the sexton is so often a cruel executioner. A side door
was sure to be left open just far enough for a stratum of
cold air to assail his neck, while the rest of the atmosphere,
being that which he felt and breathed, was of a very high
temperature. His protestations were of no avail; his injunctions
forgotten or disregarded, until he found himself
a victim of the prevailing malady.

It is believed by many of our physicians, that the damp
sepulchral atmosphere; sometimes the too hot and dry air;
but most frequently the streams of cold wind, whistling in
from the doors and windows of our churches, occasion more
diseases and deaths than the heat and pestilential vapors
of the ball-rooms.

But the condition of Mr. Mulvany not being understood
by Ned and Alice, did not trouble them with painful forebodings
of the future. In consequence of the relation in
which Susan stood to them both, but more particularly in
pursuance of the wishes expressed by Alice's mother, the
youthful friends enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing each
other at least once a week for the next ensuing several
months.

There was but one dark shadow which flitted athwart
the vision of Ned, during this, the brightest period of his
young existence. It was the scowling individual who had
attracted the attention of his uncle on the day he visited
Summerton. This was Dick Sutly. He never addressed
a word to Ned; but seemed to be ever watching in the
vicinity of Susan's dwelling. In his solitary rambles, Ned
had never met with him; it was always near the dwelling
that he crossed his path. He had seen him standing opposite
after nightfall, with his eyes elevated to the second
story. Who was this mysterious individual? What could
he want? These were questions often asked by Susan, to
whom Ned communicated all his suspicions. It was easy
to ask questions, but who was to answer them! However,
both Ned and Mulvany had seen the stranger once or

twice in company with the butcher's boy, of pugnacious
notoriety. This was at least a circumstance sufficient to
convince them that he meditated no good to any one.
And it was determined that one of the constables of the
town should have his attention directed towards so suspicious
a person.

But before the morrow, when the information was to
have been given, the stranger had withdrawn himself. He
had at last made known his mission. The window of the
rear room in the second story had been entered. A ladder,
taken from a dwelling in the vicinity, which was undergoing
repairs, was found standing against Susan's
house. The letters which Mr. Parke had deposited with
Ned, were gone!

This was the first blow in a new series of disasters. In
vain did the sympathizing and astute rector of the college
endeavor to dispel the dark cloud which enveloped the
orphan boy, by assuring him that no serious consequences
could be involved in the loss of the letters, as the arrival
of the writer of them was looked for daily. If he had no
copies of them, he could remember their contents. The
only possible advantage they could be to Mallex and Bainton,
who it was not to be doubted had caused their abstraction,
was the knowledge they would obtain of the object
and operations of Persever in the west. Persever would
bring memoranda of the incidents of his journey, and authenticated
depositions of the witnesses, whose testimony
might be required. What, then, could the letters accomplish?
They might warn the defendants a few days in
advance of the actual commencement of proceedings, and
that was all.

Ned and Susan thought differently, although they allowed
the reasoning of their benevolent friend to be quite correct.
They could not suppose that such an enterprise would be
set on foot for any object short of one of the first importance;
and they were satisfied it was an indication that
their enemies were meditating new acts of hostility.

Ned, however, was advised to write his uncle an account
of the occurrence immediately. He did so, and
placed it in the post-office himself.

It was soon generally remarked that the ill-looking man,

who had been so often in the vicinity of Susan's house,
was nowhere to be seen in Summerton. The butcher's boy
now made his idle rounds alone, but always with a significant
smile on his lip, when he met with any of the inmates
of the house which had been robbed. This, together with
the remembrance that he was a companion of the one on
whom suspicion rested, made Susan and Ned believe he
had participated in the crime. Several days elapsed before
any reply to Ned's letter was received. This delay was
the more incomprehensible, as all former letters, on indifferent
subjects, had been promptly answered by Mr. Parke.
The reason might have been known, if they had taken the
papers; but since the publication of the slanderous letter
of Mallex, which had so deeply wounded Ned—although
it had been inserted and paid for as an advertisement—the
family had dispensed with the modicum of daily information
supplied by the journals.

An answer, however, was received. It was brought by
Tim, and it was evidently not superscribed by Ned's uncle.
Susan and Ned, too eager to exchange salutations and
greetings with Tim, to think of the probable subject matter
of the letter, suffered it to lie unopened for some minutes
on the table, where Tim had thrown it down with some
violence.

“You look better than usual,” said Susan, smiling; “I'm
afraid Betty has captured you at last. I'm afraid so, because
I don't think I could approve of the match.”

Tim had a habit of pinching himself on the knee when
he was excited; and on this occasion, he made a wrench
of such extraordinary vigor, that he winced under the
infliction, and then rubbed the place briskly with his other
hand. Ned could not avoid smiling.

“Betty looks better, too, so they say: but it won't do.
She may tease my life out of me; but I say it won't do.”
Here he gave himself another cruel twinge.

“No, you can't afford it,” said Susan.

“But I'm glad you think I look better, Susan. Ned
looks better. Dang it, how he grows! But you are paler
and thinner, Susan; and Mr. Mulvany (who sat apart abstractedly,
poring over his books) looks awful bad.”

“True, Tim,” said Susan, mournfully. “But how are
the rest of our friends in the city?”

“Mrs. Dimple is gayer and more fashionable than ever.
Since Miss Alice's been away, her mother has completely
turned to be a young miss herself, and is going to be married—so
they say—to the handsome Mr. Lonsdale.”

“She can afford it,” said Ned, smiling. “But how is
my uncle?” When do they look for the return of Mr.
Persever?”

Tim pinched himself with both hands, and cast his eyes
upon the letter. “Mr. Perseverance is back, and writ that
letter. No, don't!” he exclaimed, seeing Ned take it up,
being in the act of breaking the seal. “Ned don't do it,
yet awhile. Don't, if you please!”

“Tim!” cried Susan, raising her voice suddenly, and
even startling Mr. Mulvany, who arose and approached
them; “Tim! what is the matter?” You are trembling!
I see your hair rising up on your head!”

“Su—us—an! be eas—y—don't be alarmed! Bad news
musn't skeer us. I'm resigned and calm! Don't be
narvous!” The poor fellow's hands now trembled so violently
that they lost the power of pinching.

“Perhaps the letter will explain everything,” said Ned,
once more intent on breaking the seal.

“If you please, Ned, don't!” said Tim, between his
chattering teeth. “Don't for a few moments. Only give
Susan and yourself time to get composed. You must bear
it all like me—me and Mr. Mulvany.”

Mr. Mulvany had partaken of Tim's agitation, and sank
down on a chair, pale and exhausted. In truth, Susan and
Ned were the only ones who might really boast of some
degree of composure. Ned's hand was quite steady, and
his countenance firm. He had passed through so many
trials, and had pondered so deeply on the distressing events
and circumstances of his life, that he seemed to be prepared
for any new vicissitude that might occur.

“Tim,” said he, “tell me that my uncle is well, and I
care not what else may have happened, or can happen.
As for the money which they say I ought to recover, let it
go. I shall prepare myself to earn a livelihood.”

“Oh, Ned, I—I—can't!” said Tim, making a tremendous
grab at his knees.

“Is he sick—dead?” cried Susan.

“Now, Susan, that's wrong in you! You ought to be
ashamed of yourself! I didn't think you could be so cruel
to poor Ned.”

“Cruel to me? She is not, Tim. But I am prepared
for the worst! I understand you! I will read the letter.
Tears may blind my eyes, if my uncle be dead; but I will
wipe them away and read on.”

He did so. Mr. Persever informed him briefly and feelingly
of the death of Mr. Parke. It occurred the night
preceding the arrival of the young lawyer from the west.
Instead of high hopes, and congratulatory smiles, he beheld
the badge of death at his door, when he alighted. It appeared
that during the night, Mr. Parke had probably been
seized by one of his distressing fits of coughing, which
proved fatal. The physician in attendance, observing the
symptoms of suffocation, and learning the nature of his
malady, seemed to think there was nothing unusual or extraordinary
in the event. Such a result he supposed might
have been anticipated, from the character of the disease
with which the old man had been so long afflicted.

He had purposely delayed writing to Summerton, until
after the funeral. The attendance of Ned, he thought,
would have been impolitic and unnecessary. It would have
given rise to unpleasant remarks, and could have done no
good. Eugene Bainton had been one of the principal
mourners. Mallex, however, had been an active participator
in the funeral arrangements.

Mr. Persever proceeded to state that he had obtained
sufficient material in the west, on which to have based an
action, had Mr. Parke survived, with every reason to hope
for a desirable result. But now, at least for the present,
he knew not what to do. He would consult with others,
learned in the law, and ascertain whether the probability
of success, under all the circumstances, would warrant
proceedings in behalf of Ned. He feared, however, it was
a desperate case. The statement of the matron, and the
certificate of the attending physician, who yet lived, could
hardly be overthrown by the testimony of Susan and
himself. There was an immense amount of wealth involved
in the issue, and in possession of the defendants, who
would not spare it in reaping the great advantages it

might produce for them. He would consider the chances
well before he moved in the business, and have the light of
the best intellects to aid him.

Another point he would consider. Whether an advantageous
compromise might not be effected. If Bainton
and Mallex, (now avowed partners,) would be content to
relinquish the share justly due to Mr. D. L. Parke,
retaining undisputed possession of Mr. John Parke's
proportion of the capital and profits, he thought Ned
should not hesitate to close with them. These, however,
were merely loose suggestions, to be considered in future.
He would, when the effect of the recent sad occurrences
had passed away, resume the subject, and continue the
correspondence with his young friend.

He concluded by stating that another difficulty had arisen
by reason of the omission of his aged legal friend, to execute
a will. From the papers and memoranda found on his
table, it was evidently his intention to write his will about
the time of his death. Thus, it was supposed, he had
some premonitions of his approaching dissolution. These
memoranda furnished sufficient evidence to believe it was
his intention to leave whatever fortune he possessed or
might lay claim to in future, to his “nephew Edward Lorn
Parke.” The name was found in the handwriting of the
deceased, on several fragments of paper, as well as in the
commencement of a formal will. But, unfortunately, the
intention of the deceased had not been consummated, and
it was not clear what disposition would now be made of the
several thousand dollars found to his credit in one of the
banks. An administrator would be appointed by the
proper court, and he (Persever) would still watch over the
interests of Ned. But if any other relative, however
distant, should come forward, there would arise a contest
of a lively interest to other parties not apparently concerned
in the ultimate disposition of the funds alluded to.
If none such should come forward within a sufficient space of
time, then the field would be left clear for them, (Ned and
his counsel,) and as there were no indications of a purpose
on the part of Eugene to claim the money belonging
undisputedly to Mr. D. L. Parke, and his legal representatives,
he thought he perceived the means of opening a way,

(provided they recovered the money in bank,) and without
exciting the suspicions of the enemy, to the ultimate
attainment of the great object they had been pursuing.
The principle which might enable them to recover in the
one instance, would apply equally to the other.

But Mr. Persever would not, on that mournful occasion,
dwell any longer on the subject. He would write again,
after taking a careful survey of the whole ground. And
in the meantime he advised Ned to remain where he was,
if Susan was still able and disposed to keep him with her.
Perhaps his retreat might not be discovered, or if discovered,
he might not be molested there. But, whenever he
should be resolved to return to the city and face his
enemies, whether successful in obtaining his uncle's money
or not, Persever assured him that his house would be open
to receive him, and insisted that it should be his home, at
least until he had one of his own that might be preferable
to it.

“Never—never shall you leave me, Ned!” cried Susan.
“I have money enough. I have not spent any of the
thousand dollars your uncle gave me. I said I couldn't
afford it, when they wanted me to buy so many things.
It was for you, Ned—your uncle gave it to me for you, and
you shall have it.”

“I do not want money, Susan,” said Ned, with a pale
brow, but a brave lip. “All I want is a good education.
Give me that—only let me remain a few years here with
Mr. Mulvany, under the supervision of our good and great
president, and I shall snap my fingers at all my enemies.”

“Adhere to that idea, Ned,” said Mr. Mulvany, and
you will be happy. And, now, I have to inform you that
the sum of five hundred dollars your uncle destined for
me, has remained untouched, or is rather invested with
Susan's money at interest. I had saved enough previously
to furnish this house, and did not stand in need of more.”

“And me, too!” said Tim, industriously pinching himself;
“I've got how much, Susan? I've not looked into
the Savings Banks' book since you gave it to me.”

“Not a great deal, Tim—but it's enough to help along,
if it should be needed.”

“In a pinch,” said Ned, half smiling.

“But it'll be more, Ned. I'll work all my life for you.”

“Thank you, Tim—but I intend to work for myself,
and for the purpose of repaying the kindness of all who
have assisted me in my destitute childhood.”

“No, Ned!” you shan't work!” said Susan.

“No, indeed, while we've got fingers and toes,” said
Tim.

“But I shall. I shall study hard. Only let me have a
crust and a few clothes, until my education be completed—”

“Ned is in the right, Susan,” said Mr. Mulvany.
“Idleness is an evil, and a curse to any one. He will not
work as you do, though. He has been blessed with more
than ordinary intellectual powers, which, when cultivated
properly, may enable him to repay you all. He has the
resolution, and it would be a pleasure for him to do it. I
regret I shall not witness the success I predict for him,”
added Mr. Mulvany, with a sigh.

“You will not?” asked Ned.

The teacher replied with a mournful shake of the head.

They were interrupted by the entrance of the postman
with a letter for Ned. It was postmarked Camden, and
ran as follows:

“My poor lad. I have accidentally learned your history,
and cannot divest myself of the sympathy it excites
in my breast. I am old and without children. My wealth
must descend to some one, and who can have a better title
to it than yourself, a friendless orphan—”

“Dang it, that's a lie!” said Tim, interrupting Ned,
who was reading the extraordinary epistle aloud.

—“Without fortune or kindred. But you must live
with me in my fine house in the city of New Orleans.
Consult your acquaintances, and decide immediately. I
am willing to deposit two thousand dollars, in the hands of
any person you may name, as a guaranty of the faithful
performance of my pledge. If you accede to my proposition,
address Y. Z., at the Camden office, without delay.”

They all stared in astonishment, and the letter was
handed from one to the other, and gazed at in amazement,
as if something in addition might be revealed by the paper.

“Dang it!” cried Tim, holding it half-crumpled and

upside down in his left hand, while the right one fumbled
for something in the deep pocket of his breeches—“I've
seen them pot-hooks and twisted eels before. Here, Ned,”
he continued, producing the note written by Mallex on
Christmas eve, which he had picked up in the stock-jobber's
office, “look at this! They're as much alike as two
peas.”

And they were. It was a peculiar autography, such as
could not be disguised or mistaken. The old note that
Tim had so faithfully kept ran thus: “My dear Fawner—
The bearer is sent to you for a book which you know I left
somewhere in the office. You can find it in time for him
to leave you somewhere between nine and ten o'clock, can't
you? You understand. J. M.”

“Undoubtedly these were written by the same hand!”
said Mr. Mulvany.

“You won't go, Ned,” asked Susan.

“Go! No—not now. A few years more, however, and
I will meet these gentlemen as often as they may wish.
Susan, they are making a man of me before my time!”
True enough! Ned was rapidly becoming versed in some
of the deepest lessons of the world, and he was to be no
inapt scholar.

“Don't even write to him, Ned!” said Susan, fearful
there might be danger in that.

“I shall pay no attention to it, Susan. I will merely
send it to Mr. Persever. Tim, place both of the letters in
his hands.”

“I will!” said Tim, placing them in his vest pocket and
endeavoring to button his coat over them.

“Why, Tim!” said Susan, “you've lost all your buttons.”

“No, I didn't lose 'em—at least not all of 'em. It's
Betty's doings! She pulled two off—she's always holding
me by my buttons—so I cut off the others to get rid of
her.”

“Ah, Tim! said Ned, “I'm sorry I can't laugh. My
heart is heavy. The last of my kindred is gone!—gone!
just when I began to love him as a good uncle should be
loved!”

The dejected looks and mournful tone of Ned, brought
tears to the eyes of all.