University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
MALLEX AND BAINTON DETERMINE TO DISSOLVE PARTNERSHIP.

It was night. Again the murderess, Mrs. Sutly, confronted
Mallex in his own parlour. Her visit was protracted,
and her language had been offensive. Mallex was
weary. He had made a long speech that day in the
country, in view of obtaining the nomination of his party
for Congress.

“You have your money—why do you not depart?”
asked Mallex.

“I'm not ready. I'll go when it suits me. I have a
notion to make this fine house my home, and settle myself
for life. You are a single man, and ought to marry—”

“Woman! Are you not drunk?”

“Not much. I drink my wine after dinner. Havn't
I as much right to do it as you fine gentlemen?”

“Insufferable impudence!” exclaimed the stock-jobber,
rising and approaching the window.

“Oh, he's there!” said the old hag, her eyes following
him, while her monstrous head seemed to shake with more
than its usual violence. “Dick's my shadow. Whenever
you see me, you may be right sartin he's nigh abouts. And
he's the patientest and silentest boy in the world; only it
won't do to hurt him, or to speak brashly to him.”

“I'm not looking for your infernal son Dick.”

“No matter. But if you should want him to do any
more of your nice jobs, he's always to be found. Dick
wants money. His wife is having an awful sight of children,
and none of her babies die. This is a nice house,
and I like it; and you're a nice man. Why don't you
get married? Why not have me?”

Mallex merely stared at her in mingled disdain and
astonishment.

“You can't kill me with such looks as them. I ain't
no poor Olivia—”

“Olivia! Woman, who—what do you mean?”

“Oh, she's dead; you needn't be frightened. I know
all about her. My other darter was her maid, and carried
the basket into Pecan alley.”

“Was Sally your daughter?” asked Mallex, in a low,
tremulous tone, sitting down, apparently subdued, beside
the old woman.

“Yes, she was; but she was too much afraid of you to
tell anybody but me. Don't be alarmed, honey; there's
no danger—”

“Danger? I have no fears—Olivia died a natural
death—”

“Yes; natural enough—a broken heart.”

“It was her own fault.”

“I know it, honey. She would be married. If she
hadn't been, you would 've been kinder. But we must be
married, too. I'm not afraid you'll break my heart. It's
too old and tough.”

“Ridiculous! Why will you talk such nonsense?”

“Nonsense, is it?” I tell you I must have either you

or your partner. He's the handsomest man, and hain't
got bloody hands—”

“Bloody hands! Heavens!—”

“Don't mention heaven. It makes me tremble
worse—”

“Bloody hands! Oh—”

Mallex threw up his arms, and walked the floor distractedly
for several minutes.

“What's the use of thinking about it now? It's too
late now to undo it. They may hang me—but if they
do—”

“You will have me hung also?”

“We'd better be married and live together, and then
there won't be so much danger.”

“A hell on earth?”

“But you mustn't try your hand on me, I warn you.
Our servants shan't kindle with charcoal.”

“Woman, go! Leave me!”

At that moment the bell rang furiously.

“Somebody's coming. I am always afraid of the law
officers, when I hear the bell. Well, I'll go now; but
think of my proposition, and make up your mind by the
time I see you again.”

As the old hag tottered through the hall, she met
Eugene Bainton. She curtsied, smiled sardonically, and
shook her head at him. He rushed past, muttering an execration,
and threw himself on a sofa in the parlor, with
livid lips, and a passionate frown on his brow.

“You seem to be excited to-night,” said Mallex.
“What's the matter?”

“Job!” said Eugene, striving to appear calm, “why do
you still suffer that imp of perdition to come here?”

“Suffer? ay, suffer! It is a punishment! But she
comes without being invited.”

“I suppose so. But why is she paid such vast sums of
money? Fawner tells me that thousands are given her
every year.”

“You know why it is done. We jointly bear the expense,
and equally share the benefits of her silence.”

“I have determined to be at no further expense of this
nature.”

“That's abrupt,” said Mallex, himself in no good
humour.”

“And decisive.”

“I doubt it.”

“You may doubt, but you will find it so. What if she
should establish the legitimacy of Ned Lorn? We have
quadrupled the capital we began with. We can pay Ned
Lorn the amount of principal and interest that might be
claimed by him as the representative of his father and
uncle, and still be rich. We can then have peace and
clear consciences.”

“Peace and clear consciences! Ha—ha!”

“Why not? Why do you iterate my words?”

“Think of something else, Eugene. Let us never refer
to that subject again.”

“Impossible! I shall think of nothing else until it is
adjusted. The community believe the boy is my sister's
son. You and I know it is so. Job! I would rather
be in my grave, than live thus another year. Life, henceforth,
is valueless to me, unless I can be respected, and
respect myself. I have committed a wrong. I repent it,
and would repair it. Until that is done, there can be no
happiness for me.”

“Have you been to church, Eugene?”

“No matter.”

“Who has been preaching to you?”

“My conscience!”

“Oho! ho—ho! Why, you make me laugh, in spite
of my rage at the old hag. Conscience! You have none.
Neither of us can have any. Have we not been making
hundreds of thousands of dollars? Conscience! And
will the world allow any rich man to have a conscience?
But we may be politicians. I shall go to Congress, and
afterwards, perhaps, abroad, as the representative of the
government. I will not be troubled. Am I not already
corpulent? Pshaw, Eugene! Let me tell you of a loss
we have met with. You know I bought several thousands
of the paper of the principal—”

“Do not name it! I know it, and do not regret it.
You wished to crush the institution at Summerton, but was
foiled. Let us pay this old hag no more money.”

“Then she'll blab!”

“Let her do her worst!”

“No, SIR!” exclaimed Mallex, furiously.

“I say yes, sir!”

“You know not what you say?”

“Enough that what I say shall be done. The next
thing—”

“What, something else?”

“Yes, sir. I have considered it and decided.”

“Well; what is your other decree?”

“A dissolution—and division of the assets.”

“Eugene! if you knew all, you would not talk thus.”

“I know enough. We can settle with Ned, separate,
still be rich, and what is better, be happy.”

“Be hung, you mean!”

“Hung, Job!” cried Eugene, starting up, pale and
trembling.

“Yes, hung—be hanged upon the gallows.”

“Explain, Job. Upon my honor I do not understand
you.”

“I will!” said Job, striding to the door and turning the
key. Then sitting close beside his companion, he continued:
“We are murderers!”

“It is false! I am not guilty.”

“But I am! And you are my accomplice!”

“No, no, no! Oh, no! I have never been guilty of
that. You have often constrained me against my will to
do wrong. Job! do not attempt it again. You must not
think to frighten me. My mind is made up. Who has
been murdered?”

“Daniel L. Parke.”

“He? Merciful heaven! Oh, God, thou knowest I
had no hand in it!”

“God may know it—but the jury won't. You shared
the benefits—you were my partner, my companion—and
hence my accomplice. The old hag did it at my request.
We settled the business—the bargain—the night she was
at your house. Don't you remember?”

“Yes!” said Eugene in a tone of agony.

“Well, I hired her to do it for our mutual benefit. Her
wages have been paid out of our joint treasury. Do you
think there is any escape for you?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“The grave!”

“And ignominy!”

“Job! would to God you had not made this revelation!
but I am innocent!”

“You cannot escape.”

“Perhaps not.”

“I know it. So your best plan is to go on in the old
way.”

“I cannot. I shall go mad, and declare everything
aloud in the street—”

“No, by heaven—”

“Job, you would oblige me, by shooting me through the
head. But you cannot intimidate me again. I am the
most desperate, and the most dangerous man of the two.
We had better separate. We must dissolve.”

“We must, if you insist on it. But it will never do to
admit the claims of that boy. You might give him what
you please—but no concessions.”

“And you will manage the—”

“Old hag—yes.”

“Then be it so! And if Ned's legitimacy be proven or
admitted, you shall be exempted from molestation.”

“That shall be stipulated. I will see Radley.”

“I have seen him, and consulted with him.”

“Oh, you have? Then he is yours. But our agreement
was in writing. The capital was all yours. My
share is a moiety of the profits. There can be no difficulty,
no dispute. As you say, there will be enough for all.
Perhaps we had better separate. Of course you will
never divulge the manner of the old man's—”

“I might, if we remained together. Oh, Job, why did
you lead me into such crooked paths.”

“That's past lamenting. I suppose you will grant me
a reasonable sum to be applied in satisfying the old hag's
demand—”

“Not a dollar—not one cent!” cried Eugene.

“Very well. I shall have all that burthen while she
lives.”

“You do not intend—”

“Nonsense! You have no right to demand what I
intend to do after our separation. We will settle everything
at the office to-morrow. Our real estate can be
valued at cost—'

“Oh, yes. I will meet you there. Farewell!”

Eugene hurried away.

Mallex threw himself down on the sofa and covered his
face with his hands. He remained thus for many moments,
apparently plunged in deep abstraction, and striving to
shut out the light of the chandelier from his vision. He
had not hitherto thought of danger. He had ever been
successful. His only study had been how to rid himself
of his annoyances, and how to use his great wealth so as
to reap the greatest possible amount of happiness from it.
But now he was a prey to painful apprehensions.

When he opened his eyes again, he beheld the pale,
high-cheeked and long-chinned face of Tom Denny, who
stood motionless vis-a-vis before him.

“Demon! hump-backed demon! Why are you here?”
demanded Mallex, fixing his eyes upon the imperturbable
visage of the dwarfed young man. “Will you not answer
me, dog!” continued he, exasperated at receiving no reply.
He sprang upon Tom, hurled him to the floor, and placed
his knee upon his breast. “Now, sir! tell me—have
you been listening to the conversation held in this room
to-night?”

“I have. But I am not—cannot be your enemy.”

“Enemy! You lie! They rise on every hand.
Witnesses of my guilt seem to spring up every hour.
They encompass me like blood-hounds, and would have my
life. The very walls have eyes and hands as well as ears.
I am beset by a thousand furies to-night, and shall go
mad. Monkey, dog, demon! Speak, before I grind your
knot of bones into powder!”

“Sir, if you see proper to kill me, you will destroy one
who is not your enemy—one you might repose confidence
in, and who could be of service to you.”

“If you were a Hercules, and would batter to death my
enemies; or even if you were an Argus, and would watch
them—”

“I can watch them, sir.”

“I think you might,” said Mallex, relaxing his grasp,
and permitting Tom to rise. “And why should I kill you?
Why should you be my enemy? Tom Mallex!”

“Tom Denny, sir.”

“No, sir, Tom Mallex—that is your name. You are
my son. Olivia was your mother, and we were married.
The old hag can prove it—but I acknowledge it.”

“You do, sir?”

“I do. Witness my hand and seal!” Job sat at the
table and wrote a brief statement of Tom's parentage,
which he signed. “There, sir. To-morrow, if you desire
it, I will sign a more formal acknowledgment. Now, sir,
I do not fear you—you will not betray me.”

“No, sir. I am bound to you more than to any other
living mortal.”

“I think so. And I should be bound to you—but—
candidly, I feel no affection for you, with your ape-like
face, and the knot of unshapely bones on your back.
Bah! What an heir for my estate!”

“Sir, I am as you made me. If I am indebted to you
for existence—which I do not doubt—I am also to regard
you as the author of my deformity.”

“Very true. And perhaps your shape accords well
enough with my mind. You may serve me better as you
are, than if you had been more attractive to the eye.
Boy! you are doomed to be a by-word and a jest all your
life. A thing, a monster, to frighten children, and to fill
the minds of men and women with disgust. Study mischief.
Be a hypcrite, or an unconscionable demagogue.
Swear vengeance against all the world. Swear!'

“Pardon me; I cannot do it. No one ever injured me,
but—”

“Me, I suppose. Be it so. But, sir, will you not
defend, and avenge your father? The world is at enmity
with me. They may seek my life!”

“I think not, sir. But if they do, I shall exert myself
in your behalf.”

“I believe you will—not for any love you may bear me,
but for the sake of escaping the stigma of being the son
of a man who was hung. You know what I allude to.”

“You refer to old Mr. Parke.”

“You have it. What do you think of that occurrence?”

“I would rather have died myself—than to have survived
to find my father a mur—”

“Murderer—speak it out! So, you do not approve
the act, even if you are to gain by it?”

“No, sir.”

“I think I shall disinherit you! But if you overheard
Bainton, you learned it was almost his intention to restore
to the nephew what we had of the uncle.”

“I did—and hope he will keep in that mind.”

“Fool! you are my son—then why will you oppose
me?”

“I will discharge my duty to you, sir. I cannot be
your enemy, and must serve you. You have most to fear
from Mr. Persever. He will be the first to get information
from Mr. Bainton or the old woman, if either of them
should conclude to inform on you. I am intimate with
Ned Lorn, and am invited to visit him at Mr. Persever's
house, while he stays in the city. I can become intimate
with Mr. Persever himself, by a double deception which I
could not justify myself in practicing, if you were not my
father. He will employ me as a spy in this house, which
will enable me to find out what may be passing in his.”

“Bravo, Tom! I didn't think you had such wit. I am
glad I have such a son! You shall have whatever amount
of money you may demand. Keep your eye likewise constantly
on Bainton, and the old woman, also. Tom, you
have genius. Keep these people at bay, and frustrate all
their hostile endeavours. I have a scheme of ambition.
If I live I will be Honourable—perhaps, his Excellency.
Think of your father scaling the presidential throne! You
can aid me, and I will reward you.”

Mallex smiled, and really seemed to look with affection,
for the first time, on his son.

“But—father,” said Tom, with his eyes cast downward,
“if you find that the terrible act cannot be kept a secret,
will you suffer them to seize you? Will you not fly?”

“Fly! whither should I go? No, boy—my son—you
must be vigilant. Yet be sure and give me warning, when
—that is, if they get sufficient evidence to—Pshaw!
What rich man was ever punished by the laws?”

As he said this, with an equivocal smile on his pale lip,
he withdrew. Tom threw himself down and wept like a
child. Mallex, hearing the noise, returned and stood in
the door watching him.

“You weep,” said he. “You must feel for me. Let
me embrace you. You are the only one in the wide world
whom I may trust! Good night, my son. Put out the
light, and retire to rest.” Again Mallex withdrew, and
his heavy tread was heard ascending the stairs. Tom, still
in tears, did his parent's bidding.