University of Virginia Library

41. CHAPTER XLI.
THE LAW'S DELAY—LITERARY HOPES—THE DYING POET.

After wandering about the capital a few days, and
easily gratifying the curiosity he had often felt to see the
representatives of the union in Congress assembled, Ned
returned to his friends in Philadelphia. He was anxious
to learn what would be the next step taken, and whither
it would lead; and hoped it might be attended with better
success than had been his mission to Washington.

There was nothing in his own conduct, however, with
which to reproach himself; nor did the lawyers attribute the
failure to conciliate the great secretary to any omission on
his part. It was merely a mistake in the man, and not in
their calculations. Almost any other individual, similarly
circumstanced, would have yielded to their suggestions.

Simultaneously with the appearance of Ned before the
lawyers, they were informed, by a note from Radley, that
the pretensions of Susan Meek, or rather Mrs. Mulvany,
would be resisted on the ground of remote collateral descent,
when there was a legitimate son of D. L. Parke in

existence. This announcement, although it filled them
with indignation, as they had been perfectly well acquainted
with the eldest Mr. Parke, and could not believe he had
ever been married, convinced them that the contest was to
be of doubtful issue, and the victory, if ultimately gained,
the result of a desperate struggle.

They warned Ned against being too confident of success.
If he triumphed at all, or rather if a verdict should
be obtained in favour of Susan, it would probably be after
many long delays, and the expenditure of a considerable
sum of money. But they cheered him with the assurance
that inasmuch as they had embarked in what they conceived
to be a just cause, the means should be supplied to
conduct it to a conclusion, and no exertions omitted to obtain
the desired result. They assured him of their conviction
that the opposing party intended to produce a false
heir; and they pledged themselves to use their utmost endeavours
to expose every fraud, and bring every criminal
to the bar of justice.

Ned parted from Persever in despondency. But happening
to step into the publisher's store, he was cheered
and reanimated by the happy eyes, hearts and hands that
greeted him. He was assured that his book continued to
sell very well; and not only so, but it had caused many
orders to be received for the poems of his friend Montague,
to whom he had dedicated the last edition of “The Dishonoured.”

So great was the revulsion of his spirits, produced by
this little incident, that our hero went on his way rejoicing.
Fortune might never be his; the rogues might succeed in
debarring him from realizing his just inheritance; and the
pomps and vanities of the world might still lead captive the
one he had loved, and who once professed to love him;
but, nevertheless, an unfailing resource remained, which
would furnish the means of subsistence, and had the power
of rescuing his often-depressed spirits from the brink of
despair. The genius to create, the taste to please, the
zeal to persevere; these he possessed, as he was aware, in
no ordinary degree, and of which no human agency, no
demoniac device, could ever deprive him.

With a light heart, a confident step, and an exulting

smile, the ardent young man pursued his way towards the
depot, with an intention to return to Summerton, and while
awaiting the tardy decrees of the courts, to employ his
hours in the completion of another work, which, he did not
doubt, since his first had been so successful, could be easily
and advantageously disposed of.

When passing near the corner of Third and Chestnut
streets, Ned encountered his uncle Eugene, attended by
Radley. The latter bestowed his usual unmeaning salutation;
but the other started, with marks of dismay on
his face, as if he had confronted an object of terror. He,
too, then, bowed to his nephew, half unconsciously, and
evidently in that sort of perturbation attending spasmodic
attempts to regain one's self-possession.

Ned gazed but an instant at his uncle; but that instant
sufficed to fix a picture of mingled remorse and degradation
in his memory. Eugene's form was prematurely
bowed, his features pale and pointed, and his restless eyes,
clouded with swollen veins, gleamed out fearfully, as if
familiar with the horrors which ever flit athwart the inward
vision of those whose consciences are oppressed with
the recollections of unrighteous acts committed, and which
have never been redressed.

Arrived at Summerton, no discouraging phase of affairs,
no freak of fortune, or caprice of villainy, could qualify or
diminish the unalloyed and mutual delight of Ned and
Susan upon meeting again after their comparatively brief
separation. No mother to her child, no child to its
parent, could have been more unaffectedly attached than
those kindred orphans.

The narrative of the nocturnal adventure of Tim and
Timothy made Ned laugh very heartily; and his account
of meeting with Alice, and his imitation of her ludicrous
references to Miss Z., the President's niece, diverted
Susan, who perceived, with unalloyed satisfaction, that her
foster son might easily survive the sometimes fatal shock
of unrequited love. But she was grieved to think that
Alice was capable of becoming so sadly changed; and she
uttered a secret prayer that both Ned and herself might
still remain in poverty, if the possession of fortune must
be attended by such unworthy changes of heart.

Mrs. Kale called during the day with a message from

Charles, who she said was “quite low.” Ned hastened
thither, and found his friend in a sad condition, but with
a sweet smile on his wan lips.

“Ned,” said he, with difficulty extending his thin white
hand, as he sat propped up in an old arm-chair, “I am
much rejoiced to see you again, for I was really apprehensive
that we might—might not meet again on earth. I
know we shall meet in heaven—and Viola and Elgiva will
be there!”

“Why, Charles, what has so depressed you? Whence
these gloomy forebodings?”

“Not depressed—not gloomy, Ned. You know we must
all die, and death has no terrors for me. I might desire
to be permitted to remain a little longer, to perfect a work
which has long employed my thoughts—but it may not be,
and I shall cheerfully submit. Gloomy, did you say? Not
so! Oh, heaven is one scene of sublime beauty, one eternal
thrill of poetry! And whatever others may think
and say to the contrary, the poor poet feels a consciousness
within that he shall be wafted thither. Poetry is
from heaven, and will return thither; and all who have
been melted into tenderness by the strains of divine harmony,
partake of the heavenly inspiration. Ned, thus it
was my purpose to confer a benefit on mankind. But my
harp must hang upon the willow. No earthly crown of
laurel must encircle my brows. But the flowers which are
strewn upon the grave of Viola, shall perfume the turf
which lies upon the breast of her—BROTHER!”

“Brother? Viola's brother!”

“Yes, Ned. Tell it to none but Elgiva before I am
gone. Elgiva will think of me as the blossoms fall from
her lily hand. You look surprised. Montague was not
the name of my father, nor is it all of mine. But Viola
and I were twins. Our mother's second marriage broke her
heart. It was not that she married again—but that she
chose one beneath her in education, and unworthy of her
in morals. And the death of Viola planted a thorn in my
breast which was destined to rankle to the end!

“My dear friend, do not anticipate such a result. You
may recover—you will be well again. Let me bring Dr.
T. to see you.”

“No, Ned, it were useless. I have had a visit from my
physician in the city. He was candid, as I desired him
to be. He knew I could bear to hear the truth, and he
told it me. The few medicines any one would prescribe, I
have near me, and I take them according to the directions.
It may be months, said the doctor, before the inevitable
event takes place—and it may not be weeks. But enough
of this. It distresses you. I will leave a sealed packet
for you among my papers. That is all I will say, at the
present time,” added he, smiling, “upon matters of such
grave importance. I sent for you, to assist me a little
with your pen.”

“I will do so cheerfully,” said Ned, through his tears.

“I know you will, and you will do it well. The demands
of the publishers become more pressing as my
powers of performance diminish. But they pay more
liberally, and I thank them.”

“And no doubt you have laboured too much.”

“It is probable. Indeed the doctor was positive on that
point. But I will not indulge again—yes, indulge, for it
is a pleasure to write one's thoughts in this sweet secluded
place. There, Ned, are some half a dozen volumes, which
I desire you to review for me. And here is an order for a
tale of unlimited length, to appear weekly, and not less
than four columns each issue. Two dollars a column is the
offer. You may write that also, if you desire to do so, and
submit it as a substitute for anything I might produce.”

“I will submit it to you, Charles. I have been writing
a new story these three months. To-morrow you shall see
it, or I will read it to you. Seek repose now. I will leave
you. I will despatch the books for you as quickly as possible,
not looking at the title pages until my opinions of
their merits are formed. I will do the author justice, remembering
I am an author myself who has felt the injustice
of others.”

“One moment, Ned!” said Charles, his expressive eyes
resuming their wonted fire. “Have you seen the last
number of the Daily —?”

“Oh, yes. I read it on the boat. It was poor Skimmer,
again. His own book failed; and now, Mr. C. informs
me, the publishers of the — pay him four dollars a

week for his critical notices. He says my work is crude
in style, coarse in language, and deficient in plot. Nevertheless
it still sells; my publishers told me so to-day.
That made me proof against the critic's lance. Good bye,
Charles. Do not write; but take repose.”

Ned devoted a portion of his time to the work assigned
him; and his brief reviews were unhesitatingly accepted
by the publishers. He then made rapid progress with his
“Discarded Lover,” the title of his new novel, portions of
which he read daily to the dying poet.

Charles sincerely approved or frankly condemned as he
listened to the impassioned production. And in almost
every instance ned freely expunged whatever met the disapprobation
of his friend.

The first chapters were sent to the publisher who had
written to Montague, and he cheerfully acquiesced in the
arrangement of substitution agreed upon between the
authors, and the publication of the story was begun in the
next number of the journal. As the work progressed many
readers were attracted by its merits, and soon the attention
of the public was fixed upon its absorbing developments.
The publisher acknowledged to a large accession
of subscribers, and the venders of periodical literature
were constantly returning for new supplies of the paper.

At Summerton, although none but Charles and Susan
were in the secret of the authorship, the paper was sought
after with avidity, and the story was frequently made the
subject of conversation. Ned was once near being surprised
into a betrayal of his guilt, as he called it when
mentioning the circumstance to Charles, being suddenly
confronted by Elgiva, and interrogated as to who Mr.
Mark Mayfield was, and were he lived. Susan declared
the new production superior in many respects to “The Dishonoured;”
and Betty, as well as Tim and Timothy, to
whom Susan loaned the paper, declared they laughed about
half the time when reading it, and cried the other half.

All this was doubtless very gratifying to the author.
But that which afforded him the most satisfaction was the
apparent amendment of Charles. His hemorrhages were less
frequent and less copious than they had been a month or
two previously; and although he did not improve in strength

or in appetite, yet he did not hesitate at times to admit
that his mournful presentiments might happily have proceeded
merely from the promptings of a transitory despondency.
And Ned, seeing that his friend did not
exhibit so many evidences of physical prostration when deprived
of the use of his pen, would not consent for him to
resume the exercise of it. He wrote for him at his dictation,
or substituted his own composition, when there was a
perfect unity of sentiment, which happened pretty generally
to be the case. And all this labour was an unaffected delight
to our hero. It was gratifying to his self-esteem to
see his productions in print, but there was a nobler enjoyment
in the generous purpose of obviating the necessity
of injurious toil on the part of his dear friend, and in the
thrilling hope that he might even be restored to health.

And indeed the cold bracing season seemed both to restore
the spirits and to impart additional strength to the
invalid. But it was not often during the winter that he
could wander beyond the threshold of the cottage. He
had, however, the consolation of being visited by the vigilant
young assistant rector of the parish, and occasionally
by the bishop himself. And a family of warbling songters,
beguiled by his constant care, had omitted their usual migratory
flight, and now received their daily food from his
attenuated hand. Thus they were preserved until the
breezes of spring reproduced the myriads of insects.

The meadows were again clothed in green, the infinite
variety of flowers once more made the air redolent of
sweet perfumes, and the stricken poet survived to enjoy
them, and to appreciate them in strains of thankfulness to
his own and nature's God. With the arm of Ned sustaining
his fragile form, he was enabled to walk forth and view
the inspiring landscape, and gaze at the blue sky lightly
dappled over with fleecy clouds.

It was upon such an occasion that the two friends lingered
upon the velvety bank of the majestic river, and
watched the glorious setting of the sun. The orioles were in
full song, the flowers in perfect fragrance, and the spires and
crosses—emblems of God's supremacy, and monuments
of man's devotion—tinged with golden hues. Vessels on
the one hand glided silently over the unrippled expanse of

water; on the other a long procession of lowing kine
emerging from the rich pasture, moved slowly homewards,
stepping in perfect measure with the cadence of the tinkling
bell.

Leaning upon the shoulder of his friend, one arm encircling
his neck, the poet joined his white thin hands together,
and said:

“Oh, heavenly Parent, I thank thee! Oh, merciful
Creator, receive my humble thanks, for the many blessings
thou hast bestowed upon me, and especially for the inappreciable
happiness I now enjoy. I know thou wouldst not
permit me to taste of such bliss as this, upon the eve of
departure, if it were not thy good will that the poor wanderer
should at last find eternal repose in heaven `where
the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'
Ned—my dear brother—you weep. If I too have tears,
do you not see I am smiling through them? It is a joyful,
though a solemn moment. We stand as it were upon the
narrow confines separating what is mortal from immortality,
and feeling equally the influences of earth and
heaven. But oh, how different their nature! It is good
to visit such scenes, at such moments, and with swelling
hearts to utter thanks to the great Being who created us,
for having hitherto preserved us from destruction. Ned,
come hither at this hour, in future years, and remember
me. Think of the friend of your early manhood. And as
often as you come, I will meet you. Think I am with
you. And as long as you can come with the emotions of
this eve resuscitated in your breast, believe, implicitly,
that although you have known no earthly father, you have
an indulgent parent in heaven, who is smiling upon you!”

The silence that succeeded the words of the poet was
broken by a peal of seraphic music from the small chapel
in the vicinity, which was followed by the chant of praise
sounded by the sweet voices of two hundred young girls.

It was now the hour for repose, and the poor invalid was
startled by the consciousness of being exposed to the evening
dew, against the ill effects of which he had often been
warned. They retraced their steps to the humble cottage,
where Ned remained until a late hour, for he was to visit
New York the next day, and might be absent a whole week.

He was going at the solicitation of a respectable publisher,
who had a proposition to make him in reference to the
work then passing through the columns of the periodical,
and likewise in regard to other works, which might enable
the young man to enter upon new fields in the world of
literature, with the comfortable assurance that the ox would
not be entirely muzzled during his labours.