University of Virginia Library

46. CHAPTER XLVI.
THE OLD SONG.

Ned and Susan were sitting together in the little parlour,
discussing the probable intentions of Persever, who
had recently requested the latter to narrate, in writing,

every circumstance she could remember in relation to the
history of the former. He had begged Susan not to interrogate
him as to his object, and neither she nor Ned had
heard anything more of the matter since the statement had
been sent him. The lawyer had resolved never again to
excite any expectations which he was not almost certain
would be realized. And although the recent events at
Washington seemed to afford the desired certainty, yet
he determined not to communicate any intelligence of it
to Summerton, until the business should be upon the eve
of a final consummation. Therefore the secret of the intended
dissolution, and of the determination of Eugene
Bainton to make restitution to his nephew, had been as
yet confined to the few who were mainly instrumental in
the production of such momentous results.

“By jingo!” cried Tim, springing into the room, during
a pause in the conversation. I've got some good news for
you.”

“What is it?” asked both Susan and Ned.

“Dick Sutly aint such a ingrained rascal as I
thought.”

“No, indeed he aint,” said Timothy Hay, appearing at
the door, to substantiate the assertion of his friend.

“Why do you think so?” asked Ned. “Has he not
laid claim to my uncle's estate, pretending to be his
son?”

“That was the gammon of the lawyer,” said Tim.
“But he's had a falling out with the lawyer, and he says
if you'll do what's liberal with him when you're rich, he
wont appear again you.”

“Yes,” said Timothy Hay, “and he's confessed to me
and Tim that the tale was all a humbug, and that he
never was the son of Mr. Parke, who wasn't any kin to
him.”

“And we two will swear to it in court as witnesses,”
continued Tim.

“This confession may be of some importance,” said
Ned, with interest. “I do not see, with such a denial on
his part, what further obstacle can be thrown in your
way, Susan.”

In your way, Ned. I have no right to anything. All

is yours. Like Dick, I will not appear against you.” Susan
smiled, being already aware of the withdrawal of Dick's
pretensions as well as her own.

“Not against me, but against those who would withhold
the estate from the rightful heir. But where is Dick? I
must see him.”

“He's just outside of the door, said Timothy Hay. `He
wouldn't come in,' he said, `till he was sure you wouldn't be
mad with him.' It was the same thing out at my house.
Lord bless you, I wasn't mad with him when I gave him
the thrashing for desarting his mammy.”

Ned had Dick called in, who confirmed fully what the
Tims had said of him. Dick had long since discovered it
was not the intention of any of the parties interested, to
bring his claim to a trial; and having quarrelled with both
his mother and Radley, he had returned to his family.
His wife had contrived to obtain possession of a portion
of the money advanced by the speculating lawyer, and
being a better financier than Dick, he was now dependent
on her bounty for the little sums indispensable in his daily
transactions.

Ned, however, conceiving this step of Dick to be the
effect of an honest and spontaneous impulse, did not hesitate
to make him promises of compensation in the event
named. And he thanked the two Tims for the unflagging
interest they manifested in his welfare.

When left quite alone, Ned hastened to communicate his
information to Persever by letter, resolving not to go to
the city again until his presence should be demanded.
Susan permitted him to remain in ignorance of the arrangement
she had sanctioned, and of the fact that Dick's claim
had been already withdrawn.

At the post-office he met with Elgiva, for whom a letter
had come from Alice.

“Did you know,” said she, as they returned together,
“that Alice and I have resumed our old habit of corresponding?”

“I did not, indeed,” said Ned. “But it will not surprise
me to hear it is so. Nothing surprises me, now.”

“This is the third letter,” said Elgiva, looking at the
superscription, “I have received from her since we parted

in New York. Such trifling incidents I know are not often
named to a third party. But I believe Alice would not
be offended if she knew you had been made acquainted with
a portion of the contents of her letters; for all of them,
so far, contain allusions, and not unfriendly ones, to you.”

“To me?” exclaimed Ned. “What new phase is this?”

“You mean on fair Cynthia's face; or, in plain English,
the change of the moon, which you suppose to be symbolical
of woman's nature.”

“Not of all—but of Alice's. They have ceased to have
any influence on me. I would rather worship some fixed
star, even at a hopeless distance, that always twinkles the
same feeble ray, than to share with others the power of
controlling the moon. Yet I confess I have some curiosity
to know what Alice can say of me.”

“If you can confine your ideas down to earth, and
earthly things, and will accompany me home, I will see if I
have not some message for you from the great belle.”

Ned readily agreed, for it had been no unusual thing for
him to spend his evenings, since the death of Charles, in
the company of Elgiva.

After our hero departed from New York, upon learning
his friend was so desperately ill, Alice had seen Elgiva
repeatedly, and had often referred to the attachment which
once subsisted between Ned and herself. And as she could
not rationally account for the subsequent estrangement but
by depreciating his character, she did not hesitate to hurl
detractions at his head. Yet she admitted his merit; and
desiring her injurious imputations to be considered confidential,
intimated a purpose of re-establishing friendly
relations with him—merely friendly relations. And hence
her letters to Elgiva, who could easily perceive the object
of the correspondence on the part of the belle, was to
facilitate a renewal of familiar intercourse, perhaps not
with Ned Lorn, but certainly with the author of “The
Dishonoured.” Her first letter, however, informed Elgiva,
that some of the things alleged against Ned, she had just
heard contradicted, and on such authority as to make her
doubt whether there was a particle of truth in any of the
tales which had been for years repeated to his disadvantage.
Her second declared her conviction that Ned had been from

the beginning the victim of atrocious calumniators. The
third letter was not as yet opened.

When they reached the mansion, the subject was not
renewed until they found themselves alone in the parlour.
The sun had descended in a clear sky, and the full moon
now poured its silvery rays into the open window. Elgiva,
seated at the piano, could easily distinguish both the notes
and the words of the music by the light of “fair Cynthia,”
as she smilingly termed it.

“And that reminds me,” said Ned, “of the fickle Alice.”

“Yes. You shall read two of her letters by moonlight.
You will see that permission is given me to read them to
you. And while you are perusing them, I will see the
contents of the one just received.”

This one contained a pressing invitation from Alice and
her mother (although the latter was still in mourning) for
Elgiva and Ned to visit their mansion in the city, where,
Alice assured them, they should have the pleasure of meeting
with Miss Z—, the President's niece. This letter likewise
communicated the news of the cause of Mallex's resignation.
Dr. Castor had informed her mother (in the strictest
confidence) that it was a mental malady with which the
ex-secretary was afflicted, and from which it was doubtful
whether he would ever recover. And she said her mother
was particularly anxious to see Ned at her house, as he had
always been a great favourite of hers.

Without a word of comment Ned returned the two letters,
and in silence received and perused the third one.

“The moon shines brightly, now,” said Elgiva, significantly.

“It will change anon; but no matter. I have become
accustomed to vicissitudes. My life has been a succession
of changes—hopes and disappointments. Oh, that
my lot were once unalterably fixed!”

“It seems to me that an opportunity for it is now furnished,
if I may be a judge of the signification of the intimations
thrown out by one of my own sex.”

“Alice cannot influence my destiny. Her mind has
been perverted in the world of fashion, and the sensibilities
of her heart deadened by the vices of an ambition to excel
—to excel in the number of conquests, in the brilliancy of

display, and in the aristocracy of her associates. Doubtless
she feels a stronger attachment for this Miss Z—
than she could experience for any man; and simply because
she is the relative of a President. And what now are our
Presidents, that even their remote kindred should be entititled
to such adulation? Formerly great and good men
were elevated to the highest positions in the government.
Now the high places are debased to the degraded level of
unworthy men—demagogues and profligates! But, pardon
me, I am talking politics to a lady. Will you not oblige
me by singing that simple and pathetic song, “'Twas ever
thus,” &c. It is the sweetest composition, and the most
touchingly truthful, of the modern English poets.”

“Oh yes. Ah, no!” said Elgiva, gliding to a window
opening on the piazza. A better warbler has forestalled
me!”

“Charming!” exclaimed our hero, following lightly, and
listening to the song of a mocking bird perched among the
woodbine on the trellis. “The very air I named!” continued
Ned, in a soft whisper, taking the unresisting hand of
Elgiva.

“Very nearly,” said she, smiling. “I have repeated it
so often for you at this hour, that the bird has learned it.”

“Can it be possible!”

“Oh yes. They can be taught to imitate even the most
difficult strains in the operas, by constantly hearing them
repeated.”

“But has this bird heard my favourite song repeated so
very often?” asked Ned.

“I must confess to having practiced it alone, at the still
hour of night, when all but the bird and myself were slumbering.”

“And think you none other watched with sleepless eye
at that silent hour?”

“How should I know?”

“Be assured then that the sweet sounds were still ringing
in my ears.”

“Oh, if they rob you of your rest, why should you desire
to hear them again?”

“They robbed me of nothing but my cares. I was
soothingly wafted to a species of elysium in which I would

have dwelt forever. Oh, that I might possess such a sweet
songster as this!”

“Would it be so difficult?” asked Elgiva, still gazing out
at the trellis, although the bird had ceased its song.

“Perhaps not—to obtain such a bird. But—but it was
not the bird I referred to. Often have I been ready to
believe that the clouds were about to be swept away from
my life's horizon—that the name and fortune to which I
was entitled might be claimed and possessed—and then
the impulse of my heart was to lay everything at the feet
of—of—but no! the gleams of hope were delusive; the
clouds again enveloped all in gloom, and nothing but the
cheering success attending my poor efforts in literature,
has rescued me from utter despair.”

“Nothing else—no other hope?”

“There was another hope—I fear a presumptuous one
—encouraged by what I supposed to be a sympathy on the
part of — why should I not express it?—on the part of Elgiva,
at least in my misfortunes.”

“And why not in your future prosperity?” asked Elgiva,
still permitting her hand to remain in his.

“I feared to hope it in the sense I wished. Oh, Elgiva!
would it were so!”

“Then it is so!” said she, in a low but distinct voice,
her drooping head touching his shoulder.

“Blessings on you! For I may be still doomed to disappointment,
as it regards fortune and—”

“Fortune!” said she, interrupting him. “If that were
all required for happiness, do I not possess it? But it is
not so!”

“No it is not so. But the charge of fraud, the stain of
ignominy—”

“Never could be attached to you!” said she with emphasis.
“He who has fixed principles of morality founded
upon the divine laws; whose conduct has won the approbation
of those who know him best; and whose talents have
achieved distinction—surely such an one need not lament
the deficiency of fortune, or fear that the slanders of mercenary
foes can ever prevail against him.”

“And is such your belief—your decision? Oh, Elgiva!
My fortunes, such as they are, and may be—my heart—

my hand—are earnestly, eagerly, tendered you! I await,
at this silent hour, the response which is to seal my happiness
or misery.” Her head pressed more heavily on his
shoulder, and the arm that encircled her was not repulsed.
“Speak!” continued he, “or let your silence—”

“No, I will not be silent,” said she. “If the old attachment
for Alice—”

“Oh, be assured it has long since been utterly obliterated!”

“Then, Ned, I am yours!” said she. “Yours for life
and eternity!”

During the interval of silence which ensued, the mocking
bird sang again, but in a more cheerful strain.

“Elgiva!” said Ned, smiling, “the bird is witness of
our vows!”

“And the air is less plaintive. A favourable augury!
Adieu, now; it is very late. Will you sleep more soundly
than usual?”

“Certainly more blissfully. And may pleasant dreams
bless my Elgiva!”

And thus they parted, while the bird continued to pour
forth its song among the dewy flowers.