University of Virginia Library

35. CHAPTER XXXV.
NO ROSE WITHOUT A THORN.

Still Susan and Ned had nothing decisive from Persever.
But the delay was deprived of its pain, by the unanticipated
success of Ned's novel. Seemingly by one of
those sudden caprices of taste, by which fortunes are sometimes
made, “The Dishonoured” was sought after by
“everybody.” The publisher said it was mainly owing to
the title, which was his work; and, no doubt, that was the
first feature which attracted public attention. But then,
the work itself, with the exception of a feeble attack now
and then from the prolific pen of Skimmer, (who wrote for
several publications,) was noticed by the press with favour.
Better still, it sold well, and there was quite a sum accruing
to the author's credit on the publisher's ledger.

And, just about the same time, there arose a “breeze of
public favour” in behalf of poetry. It began on the opposite
side of the Atlantic ocean, and spread over our broad
domains like a fitful epidemic. Of course the elements had
been originally moved for the especial benefit of the imperial
geniuses; but a great deal of our native poetry was so
obviously equal to any of the recent importations, that a most
fortunate hue and cry in favour of American poets was the
consequence. And when Montague received a check from
his publisher for a hundred dollars, with the intelligence
that his work was now having a brisk sale, and was praised
by some of the most discriminating critics, the happy smile
that beamed upon the young man's countenance was indicative
of a felicity within which the events of this life do
not often afford. It was the realization of a life-long
dream; the fruit of years of toil; the concentrated bliss
which is sometimes the product of seasons of anxiety and
misery, and which, after all, is deemed a sufficient recompence!

During the progress of these events there was an occurrence
of another nature, apparently insignificant in itself,
but productive of unpleasant apprehensions in the minds
of Ned and Susan. This was the removal of Dick Sutly
and his family to Summerton. He leased a small dwelling
in an obscure locality, but of sufficient dimensions to accommodate
his coarse, ill-favoured wife, and their no less rude
and ill-bred children. Dick professed to have his place of
business in the city, the nature of which, however, was not
stated. But having purchased a season ticket from one of
the boats, he was, like many others, a daily traveller. His
first care after his removal was to apologize to Timothy Hay,
and to remove any prejudice in the community that might be
existing against him in consequence of his conduct on the
occasion already described. He was therefore diligent in
his endeavours to make satisfactory explanations. His accusation
of the honest farmer had been altogether the result
of a mistake. It was not the same horse and buggy at
all—they had merely resembled those he had seen.

Dick had taken the pains to make his apologies and explanations
in person to the Tims at their own houses; and
he contrived, not only to obtain their forgiveness, but succeeded

in the attempt to ingratiate himself with their
families so far as to be permitted to make repeated visits.
But his efforts to produce the same favourable impression
on the minds of Ned and Susan, did not meet with the
same degree of success. He had the audacity to wait upon
them both, thinking, as he said, it was necessary to apologize
to them also, knowing their friendship for the Tims.
He was listened to merely, and suffered to depart
without question and almost without comment. Ned still
thought he had seen him somewhere under suspicious circumstances,
but his memory was not clear. Nor was it possible
that a perfect recognition could now take place; for
Dick, to guard against such a contingency, had effectually
disguised his features by suffering a large quantity of hair
to grow upon his face.

Dick could not avoid frequently encountering both Tim
and Timothy on the boat, when taking their fruits, vegetables,
calves, &c., to market; and on all such occasions
the employee of Mallex manifested a friendly disposition;
and frequently he facilitated their sales at remunerative
prices. And the more effectually to win their confidence,
he made repeated references to Ned Lorn, whose cause he
seemed to espouse very heartily, and to unite with the
Tims in bitter denunciations of the rich bankers. After
he had thus cast his nets, the confident Dick thought he
might as well be catching some fish, to use an expression
of his wife, who was privy to his operations and objects.
So he ingeniously inquired of the unsuspecting countrymen,
if Ned was not then engaged in some plan to recover
his fortune. The honest Tims did not suspect his motive;
they did not doubt the honesty of his solicitude; but as
they were not possessed of the secret themselves, they
could not divulge it.

Nevertheless the cunning son of the wretched murderess,
in the literal observance of his instructions, was not destined
wholly to fail in the procurement of information for
his employer. One day, when he was standing beside the
Tims on the wharf at Summerton, awaiting the arrival of
the boat which was touching at the village on the opposite
side of the river, a small boy who sat upon the planks
fishing for roach, was observed to be pulling up something
quite weighty to which his hook had become fastened.

“What is that?” asked Tim.

“An old bit of leather!” said Timothy Hay. “It's a
part of a saddle-skirt that's been laying at the bottom
maybe ever since the old continentals crossed under Gineral
Washington.”

“It's as old as the hills,” replied Tim, turning it over
with his foot, “I know old leather when I see it. It gits
to be black as your hat. Stop, sonny, he continued, seeing
the boy about to throw it into the water,” it may be
waluable.”

“Waluable? What'll you give me for it?”

“I don't want it,” said Tim, smiling; “but if Mr. Persevere
was to see it, he might give you a penny or two.
He's hunting up all the old pieces of leather in the country.”

“What for?” asked Timothy.

“Lord bless you, who knows what the lawyers do things
for! Mr. Persevere found the black covers of an old family
bible at my house mixed up in a parcel of rubbish, and he
begged me as a great favour to let him have 'em! Then
he found some old yallar leaves that used to be in 'em, and
he begged 'em also. They used to belong to Susan's
mother.”

“To Susan Mulvany's mother?”

“Yes, and there was a whole lot of digny letters written
by Susan's grandfathers, and mothers, and ancestorers,
which my mother had kept in an old chist.”

“And did the lawyer ask for them too?”

“He did, as sure as you're born!”

“That beats all!” said Timothy Hay, who certainly had
no appreciative taste for ancient manuscripts.

“And I recollect, now,” continued Tim, with sudden animation,
“that Mr. Persevere, and Ned too, looked as well
pleased as if they had found a regular will made by old
Mr. Parke giving everything to Susan. And I heard 'em
mention Susan twice! But here's the boat. Dick, wont
you help us to put the calves on board?”

Dick readily rendered his assistance, smiling joyfully at
the recitation he had just overheard, every syllable of
which was stored in his memory to be repeated verbatim
to Mr. Radley, to whom he now made his daily reports.

Although he had no more conception of the nature and
value of Persever's acquisition than the innocent Tim himself,
yet he doubted not the narration of what he had
heard would be received with eager interest by his employer.

So elated was Dick with the possession of this intelligence,
that he seized the largest calf of the lot, and twisting
his tail, impelled him towards the boat with unusual
violence. The poor animal cried very piteously, and pitched
and reared very much in its struggles to escape from its
tormentor. And it succeeded. For when within a few feet
of the plank connecting the boat with the wharf, the exasperated
animal made a desperate spring to the right, and
plunged into the river, carrying Dick head foremost with
him, amid shouts of laughter. Dick, who could not swim,
was extricated in a half-drowned condition; but the poor
animal escaped the knife of the butcher—for another day.