University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
NED MEETS WITH BAINTON—A SMILE OF FORTUNE.

Ned had been in the habit of visiting the city once or
twice a year; and during these visits had always been the
guest of Mr. Persever. But hitherto their consultations
had not resulted in any proceedings against Mallex and
Bainton. The former did not on any occasion choose to
recognize Ned as an acquaintance; but the latter had of
late evinced quite a different disposition. When Ned was
in the city, Eugene not only sought to encounter him in
a friendly manner in the street, but had on one occasion
pressed him in an urgent and serious manner to visit him
at his house. Ned's conduct was reserved and circumspect,
rather than defiant and passionate. He declined
the invitation in respectful terms, and passed on without
a desire to prolong the conversation.

It was during the last vacation, and while he still had
under consideration the offer of the principal of the institution,
that Ned accompanied one of the resident dowagers
to the city, at her special request. She had procured for
him a card of invitation to the magnificent and almost
regal entertainment to be given that evening, by the celebrated
Mrs. R—, whose boundless wealth and ambition to
vie with the most successful patronesses in either hemisphere,
had made her name familiar in aristocratic cirles
in Europe, and secured its commemoration in the traditions
of the city as effectually as had been the rich Athenian's.

Having parted with his complaisant companion at the
mansion of one of her acquaintances in the west end of
the city, Ned was hastening in the direction of the more
humble dwelling of his legal friend, when he was accosted
by his old acquaintance in Pecan alley—Tom Denny.

“Ned Lorn!” cried Tom, seizing his hand. “You don't
know me? I see you have forgotten the boy who offered
you his parrot one Christmas, after you escaped from your
abductors.”

“Tom Denny! Though it is much altered, still I can
recognize your face. But your form, Tom—your—”

“My humped back! You mean that. It was straight
when we last parted. It has been broken; it was an accident,
a lucky accident—”

“A lucky accident, Tom!” exclaimed Ned, surveying
the enormous protuberance between the young man's shoulders.

“I think so, Ned. It's well now—it don't hurt me any
more. I'll tell you all about it. Let us stroll along Broad
street. About four years ago, I was run over in the
street, by a rich man's coach, which broke my back. I
was taken into an apothecary's shop. The physician that
examined me had my clothes taken off, in the presence of
the gentleman whose coach had done the mischief. An old
miniature found with me in the basket, supposed to be the
likeness of my mother, being suspended from my neck,
attracted the attention of the rich gentleman. He gazed
at it eagerly, and became greatly excited. Then upon discovering
a mulberry mark on my shoulder, his agitation
increased. He did not explain the particular cause of his
violent emotion; and all supposed it to be merely a very
natural concern at my lamentable condition, after the doctor
had pronounced the serious nature of the injury I had
sustained. But he immediately insisted upon having me
conveyed to his fine house, which was not far off, instead
of being taken to the hospital as had been proposed by
others. It was done. The best medical attendance was
secured, and I recovered in due course of time.

“I had appointed a day upon which to leave the house.
Mr. Radley, a lawyer, had informed me I might recover
$10,000 damages. He agreed to undertake the recovery
of it, by the employment of some other lawyer, his own
agency in the transaction to be forever a secret. He was
to have one-fourth the proceeds and pay all the costs.

“Well, the day arrived upon which I had fixed for my
departure. I announced my intention to Mr. Mallex—”

“Mallex! Tom, did you say Mallex?”

“I did, Ned—Mr. Job Mallex.”

“Go on.”

“He was much excited. He asked what I intended to
do. I told him I wasn't fit for much in my crippled condition;
but that, in my opinion, he ought to compensate
me for the injury. He said it was an accident. I told
him the lawyers said the court would give me large
damages. At the name of the lawyers and the court, he
foamed at the mouth, stamped and swore. I had seen
rather too much of the world to be frightened at anything
he could say or do; and so I merely repeated what I had
said with perfect coolness. He gazed at me, probably five
minutes, without uttering another word, and then burst into a
fit of loud laughter. `Tom,' said he, `I'm resolved to defeat
the lawyers for once. You see I have no family—no one
to provide for but myself. And since I have ruined your
prospects—spoiled your beauty—and find you a keen, sensible
lad, hang me if I don't provide for you. I will adopt
you, and perhaps make you my heir. You shall live with
me, and have ten dollars a-week. If we fall out, and
hereafter you should determine to leave me, you know you
can then bring your suit, as well as now?

“This was good luck. I hadn't sold newspapers all my
life for nothing. I knew what a good bargain was. And
so I said I would agree to the proposition, if he would put
it in writing, and sign it before witnesses. He laughed,
patted me on the hump, and sent for Radley. The agreement
was written out, signed and deposited in the Savings
Institution, where I had already some two hundred and
fifty dollars.

“More than a hundred times have we fallen out since
then; and as often have I threatened to leave him. But
he won't let me. Ned, he never will let me go! When I
get positive—because I am independent—he cools down in
a minute, and agrees to everything I say. He's a tyrant
to everybody else; but they say I am his master. He will
abuse me, and curse me! but then he always submits in
the end. Now wasn't it a lucky thing for me that he
broke my back?”

“I can't agree with you, Tom,” said Ned, shaking his
head. “But I am glad you are so well provided for.”

“Ned!” said Tom, “I always loved you, and you were
always kind to me. Now, you have no idea what a gratification
it would be to render you a service. Susan said she
couldn't afford to have the parrot; but couldn't she afford
now to let you borrow a hundred dollars of me?”

“No, no, Tom! I thank you. But I would rather
starve than accept any of that man's money!”

“I understand, Ned. He's been your enemy, and is
yet. I hear him and Mr. Bainton speak about you very
often. I don't let on. They have no idea that I ever
knew you; and I've never told 'em. But how does Susan
get on?”

“As she did when you knew her. She has a few
boarders and makes a living by her industry, and still keeps
her old savings out at interest, for my benefit, I believe.”

“Good bye,” said Tom, seeing Ned was about to leave
him. “I must meet with you again before you leave the
city. Let us see each other to-morrow, and I'll tell you
what's the matter between Mallex and Bainton. They
don't agree as well as they used to. Mr. Mallex is absent
a great deal; he has bought a farm near the village of
—, and turned politician in the country. In the city,
he is the bill-broker and stock-jobber still.”

When Ned drew near the residence of his legal friend,
he was somewhat surprised to meet him in company with
Eugene Bainton, and apparently engaged in an earnest
conversation. After greeting Persever very warmly, Ned
permitted Bainton to take his reluctant hand.

“Ned,” said Eugene, “I have long been a sufferer on
your account. Your history, as Susan Meek and yourself
related it, seems to be credited by a great many respectable
people, who regard me with distrust. Thus I am
bereft of happiness. Now, if you be my sister's son, you
have only to establish the fact. I will not make any opposition.
It is well known that I was absent—far away—
when your father, or rather Mr. John Parke and my sister,
died—and at the date of the physician's certificate of the
death of their son. I cannot be responsible for any transactions
in my absence—”

“Was I not placed in the house of refuge with your
consent? Or rather, why was I taken thither, and confined

with a mob of juvenile offenders, the sons of dissolute and
disreputable parents?”

“It was not with my consent. God knows I was innocent
of all participation in that act. Why it was done, it
is not for me to say.”

“But, sir, do you not know that I am the son and heir
of John Parke? Have you not learned from others—from
your associate, perhaps—that the unresisting child he conveyed
thither did not die—is still living?”

“I will admit that an old woman—a disgusting old hag
who demanded money from us, declared she had placed a
dying boy in the cot which had been occupied by my
nephew—”

“That explains the mystery! My God! I thank you!”
exclaimed Ned, throwing up his arms, and speaking in such
a vehement manner as to attract the attention of persons
in the street.

“Here we are, at my door,” said Persever. “Come
in!” They followed him.

“What was the name—what the appearance of the old
woman?” continued Ned.

“A most repulsive, broad, wrinkled face; white eyebrows,
and coarse grizzly hairs on her lip and chin.”

“Did not her digusting head shake continually?”

“It did.”

“Then, horrible wretch as she was, and is, if she still
lives, you may believe her. I remember her—I never can
forget her!”

“Mr. Bainton!” said Persever, with a glow of generous
enthusiasm, “you have voluntarily furnished an important
link in the chain of evidence; a fact we have not hitherto
known, and one we might never have obtained, although I
think I have seen that same woman. Such conduct, sir,
can be attributed to no other than the most honorable
motive.”

“And is not such evidence quite sufficient?” asked Ned.

“It is sufficient to prove you were there,” said Eugene;
“that you saw this woman there: but it does not prove
she told the truth. I have no doubt you saw her, and that
her abhorrent image is still fresh in your memory; but
hundreds could say the same; and the truth of the certificate

of the attending physician, Dr. Drastic, who still
lives, and enjoys an unsullied reputation, cannot be overthrown
by the assertion of a woman of no character, who
demands money for being silent.”

“Then, sir, I will bide my time. There will be other
evidence of my identity. I cannot believe I am to go
down to the grave, either under the imputation of being an
imposter, or the victim of injustice, defrauded of my rights.”

“I have never regarded you as an imposter.”

“Some one did. And not only inferred it, but wrote it
down, and published it!” continued Ned, in a passionate
tone.

“It was not I who did it.”

“You know who it was. You did not contradict it.”

“Ned—no! I will not say it now. This, however,
I will say: only establish your claims, and it will be seen
that the fortunes of both the Parkes have not been squandered—”

“Forbear!” said Persever, who supposed from Ned's
contracted brow and quivering lip, that he was about to
utter some irritating reply. “Mr. Bainton!” he continued,
“I am glad we met. Let us meditate on the matter in the
solemn privacy of our closets. We are all liable to error.
But alas! how few of us have the noble courage to retrace
our steps, or to forgive an injury. If it be divine to forgive,
it is no less God-like to repair a wrong. Let us consult
our consciences, and be guided by them!”

Eugene pressed the hand of Persever, and touching that
of Ned, departed without making any answer.

When he had gone several minutes, Persever, who had
thrown himself back in his chair and closed his eyes,
started up, laughing loudly, and exclaimed: “Ned, the
devil who has been working against us, is about to be overthrown
at last! The Lord has taken pity on that man's
soul! Ned, my boy! What will you take for your fortune?
If I had Madame R—'s wealth, I would offer you
$200,000, at the very least.”

“If I have character,” said Ned, “the fortune might
contribute to my happiness—but not without.”

“Character! My dear boy, you have lost no reputation—”

“Did I ever have any, Mr. Persever.”

“As much as other young men—quite as much wherever
you are know. But, truly, if it were otherwise, the fortune
would soon repair it—stop, now; none of your frowns!
You are right. See this uncle of yours. He has immense
wealth, but is evidently miserable, because he is aware that
good men regard him as the defrauder of the orphan. You
know I wrote you an account of my interview with them,
wherein I warned them, and threatened them. My denunciations
have gone abroad in the community. They never
trace the tale to its true source, and of course it is believed.
But your uncle—don't shake your head—I have hopes of
him—that he will purge his breast and be worthy of you
yet—will make an effort to escape from the load of ignominy.
Remember, Ned—while life lasts it is not too late
to repent, or to repair an injury—and that all just men
must forgive.”

“True. Forgive; but they cannot forget.”